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DEb 


outhe 
Poets 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


A 
YEAR  BOOK 

OF 

SOUTHERN  POETS 


By 
HARRIET  P.   LYNCH 


NEW  YORK 
DODGE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

214-220  East  23d  Street 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY  DODGE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
[Southern  Poets] 


NOTE 

The  compilers  desire  to  thank  the  following  publishers  who  have 
generously  consented  to  permit  the  use  of  selections  of  which  they 
hold  the  copyright :  Hough  ton,  Mifflin  Company  for  selections  from 
"Colonial  Ballads,  Sonnets  and  Other  Verses,"  by  Margaret  J. 
Preston;  B.  F.  Johnson  Publishing  Company  for  selections  from 
Poems  of  Henry  Timrod;  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company  for  selections 
from  "  Songs  Old  and  New,"  by  Margaret  J.  Preston;  John  C.  Wins 
ton  Company  for  selection  from  Poems  by  John  Trotwood  Moore; 
Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard  Company  for  selections  from  Poems  by 
Paul  Hamilton  Hayne;  John  Lane  Company  for  selections  from 
Lyrics — Poems — Later  Lyrics  by  John  B.  Tabb,  and  "Augustine 
the  Man,"  by  Amelie  Rives;  Little,  Brown  &  Company  for  selections 
from  "Cartoons,"  by  Margaret  J.  Preston,  and  "Hidden  Sweet 
ness,"  by  Mary  Bartley;  Whittet  &  Shepperson  for  selections  from 
"Sonnets  on  Scripture  Themes,"  by  Robert  Whittet;  Thomas  Y. 
Crowell  &  Co.  for  selections  from  Poems  by  Edgar  Allan  Poe;  The 
Century  Company  for  selections  from  Poems  by  John  C.  McNeill  and 
Poems  by  Irwin  Russell;  M.  Stolz  &  Company  for  selections  from 
"The  Shadows  on  the  Wall,"  by  Howard  Weeden;  Frederick  A. 
Stokes  Company  for  selections  from  "  Rings  and  Love  Knots,"  by 
Samuel  Minturn  Peck;  Chas.  Scribner's  Sons  for  selections  from 
Poems  by  Sidney  Lanier,  and  "The  Coast  of  Bohemia,"  by  Thomas 
Nelson  Page;  The  Neale  Publishing  Company  for  selections  from 
"The  Ivory  Gates,"  by  Armistead  C.  Gordon;  Doubleday,  Page  & 
Co.  for  selections  from  "A  Freeman  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Ellen 
Glasgow;  J.  P.  Kennedy  &  Sons  for  selections  from  Poems  by  Father 
Ryan;  and  Harper  Brothers  for  selections  from  Song  by  Mary  Car- 
rington  Coles. 


YEARj,     BOOK 
SOUTHERN    POETS 

January  first 

Toss  your  green  plumes,  ye  pine-covered  mountains, 
Revel  in  gladness,  thou  beautiful  earth ; 

Sprinkle  your  silver,  ye  bright  rippling  fountains, 
A  year  from  the  midnight  has  taken  its  birth. 

Carter  W.  Wormeley  ("Hymn  to  the  New  Year"). 


January  second 

Oh !  bright  New  Year,  with  snow-white  train, 
Oh !  glad  New  Year,  you've  come  again : 
Covering  the  earth,  its  every  stain, 
With  snow-white  train  from  mount  to  main — 

May  good  live  on  in  you, 

The  beautiful  and  true ! 
Margaret  I.  Weber  ("The  Old  and  the  New"). 


<iA  'Year  Book  §f 

January  third 

A  wind  moved  through  the  night 

On  wings  that  shiver — 

On  icy  wings  through  pearly  chill  moonlight, 
Beyond  the  stars  that  glisten  weirdly  bright, 

Away  forever. 
On  icy  wings  that  shed  the  downy  snows 

The  spirit  flees, 

Bearing  away  to  the  vale  where  Lethe  flows 
The  vanished  year  red  with  a  myriad  woes, 

Leaving  us  peace. 

And  unto  Thee,  whose  love  will  bid  the  snows 
To  melt,  and  cleanse  the  earth  of  gore, 
O  Prince  of  Peace,  we  pray  that  Sharon's  rose 
May  in  the  valleys  of  our  hearts  repose 
Untrampled  evermore. 

/.  H.  Booton   ("New   Year  Nocturne"). 


[4] 


Southern;  Poets 

January  fourth 

What  will  I  care  for  the  unshared  sigh, 
If,  in  my  fear  of  lapse  or  fall, 
Close  I  have  clung  to  Christ  through  all, 

Mindless  how  rough  the  road  might  lie, 

Sure  He  will  smoothen  it  by-and-by. 

Margaret  J.  Preston  ("By-and-By"). 


January  fifth 

Thou  in  the  Mystic  Hours,  will  see  the  Veil 
Rent,  and  the  solemn  beauty  that  appears, 
Eternity,  so  idle  with  her  years, 

The  ancient  loveliness  that  grows  not  pale. 

A.  H.  Eutledge   ("The  Solace  of  the  Hours"). 


[5] 


Books/" 

January  sixth 

The  robin  laughed  in  the  orange  tree : 
Ho,  windy  North,  a  fig  for  thee: 
While  breasts  are  red  and  wings  are  bold 
And  green  trees  wave  us  globes  of  gold, 

Time's  scythe  shall  reap  but  bliss  for  me 
— Sunlight,  song,  and  the  orange  tree. 

Sidney  Lamer  ("Tampa  Robins"). 

January  seventh 

Around  me,  on  the  battle  fields  of  life, 

I  see  men  fight  and  fail  and  crouch  in  prayer; 
Aloft  I  stand  unfettered,  for  I  know 
The  freedom  of  despair. 

Ellen  Glasgow  ("The  Freeman"). 

January  eighth 

For  I  know  not  why,  when  I  tell  my  thought, 

It  seems  as  though  I  fling  it  away ; 
And  the  charm  wherewith  a  fancy  is  fraught, 

When  secret,  dies  with  the  fleeting  lay 

Into  which  it  is  wrought- 

Henry  Timrod  ("Why  Silent"), 


[6] 


Southern*  Poets 

January  ninth 

And  I  saw  night 

Dig'ging  the  grave  of  day ; 
And  day  took  off  her  golden  crown, 
And  flung  it  sorrowfully  down. 

Father  Ryan  ("Reverie"). 

January  tenth 

So  on  I  press  up  that  steep  slope 

Behind  whose  brow  that  sun  is  setting ; 

I  walk  with  Faith  and  not  with  Hope, 
Despairing  not  and  not  forgetting. 

Barton  Gray  ("The  Crown  Unwon"). 

January  eleventh 

In  dreams,  in  dreams  we  part  not.     The  day  dawn  and 

the  morrow 
May  take  you ;  but  each  morning  with  the  dreamer's 

vision  gleams. 
You  are  mine  when  night  recalls  you,  with  your  young 

heart  free  from  sorrow, 
In  dreams. 

Armistead  C.  Gordon  ("In  Dreams"). 


[7] 


Bookg/" 

January  twelfth 

One  heaven  above; 
But  many  a  heaven  below 
The  dewdrops  show — 
God's  tenderness 

Subdued    in   every    teardrop   to    express 
The  whole  of  Love. 

John  B.  Tabb  ("All  in  All"). 


January  thirteenth 


I  place  my  hand  upon  my  cheek — 

And  sitting  thus,  whole  hours,  all  mute, 

Feeding  on  thoughts  too  rich  to  speak, 

I  hear  the  ever  rushing  wings 

Of  the  many  cloudy  things 

Which  are  my  brain's  imaginings. 

Philip  P.  Cooke  ("Lines"). 


[8] 


Southerrv  Poets 

January  fourteenth 

The  hills !    We  love  the  hills. 
Their  heads  are  nearest  Heaven, 
Their  sides  to  morn  and  even ! 

There  is  a  joy  that  fills 

Their  anthem  to  the  day 

There  is  a  peace  that  fills 

The  requiem  of  hills 

To  the  light  that  dies  away. 
JTis  more  than  song  or  wine 
To  see  their  summits  shine, 
Through  twilight's  purple  wine, 

Like  islands  of  the  blest, 

In  the  ocean  of  their  rest. 

Frank  O.  Ticknor  ("The  Hills"). 

January  fifteenth 

The  chosen  spirit  on  its  forward  march, 
Armed  with  just  courage  that  makes  great  its  cause, 
Stands  mightier  than  the  force  of  common  laws, 
And  grows  beneath  the  heaven's  dread  favoring  arch, 

Into  an  eminent  statue  like  a  God. 

William  G.  Simms   ("Hannibal"). 


[9] 


'Year  Book  §f 

January  sixteenth 

Across  insensate  space,  where'er  them  art, 
My  being's  current  sets,  and  swiftly  flies, 

Fond  impulse  of  my  inmost  soul  and  heart — 

Thou'lt  know,  e'en  beyond  the  seas  and  skies. 

Annah  R.  Watson  ("Telepathy"}. 


January  seventeenth 

From  the  last  kiss  of  the  sun  upon  the  mountains, 

From  the  far  spaces  where  the  wings  of  night  unfurl, 
Stream  up  the  skies  like  the  gleam  of  many  fountains 

Sprayings  of  jasper  and  amethyst  and  pearl 
Until  far  up  they  blend  into  one  golden 

Sea,  past  whose  waters  if  a  man  once  trod, 
He  should  see  surely  splendors  but  beholden 

Only  in  the  city  of  the  Saints  of  God. 

James  Lindsay  Gordon  ("A   Virginia  Sunset"}. 


[10] 


Southerrv  Poets 

January  eighteenth 

Hark !  to  mine  a  voice  is  calling, 
Sweet  as  tropic  winds  at  night, 
Gently  dying,  faintly  falling, 
From  some  marvelous  mystic  height, 
Troubled  thought's  unhallowed  riot 
By  its  wandering  glamor  kissed, 
Feels  a  charm  of  sacred  quiet 
Fold  it  like  enchanted  mist. 

Paul  H.  Hayne  ("The  Realm  of 


January  nineteenth 


Truth  walked  beside  him  always, 

From  his  childhood's  early  years, 

Honor  followed  as  his  shadow, 

Valor  lightened  all  his  cares: 

And   he   rode — that    grand   Virginian — 

Last  of  all  the  Cavaliers  ! 

James  B.  Hope  ("The  Lee  Memorial  Ode"). 


["I 


'Year  Book  §f 

January  twentieth 

He  had  slipped  from  the  paths  of  duty 

In  the  dewy  bright  light  of  the  morn ; 
He  had  culled  him  the  primrose  of  beauty 

To  embed  in  his  bosom  a  thorn. 
And  his  dawning  came  on  with  a  sadness, 

And  his  morning  lay  shadowed  in  blame, 
For  the  birthright  of  sorrow  is  madness, 

And  the  wage  of  the  sinner  is  shame. 

Carter  W.  Wormeley   ("Waters  of  Marah"). 


January  twenty-first 


And  all  was  calm  and  still  again, 
So  still — the  place  might  seem  to  be 
The  grave  of  sound. 

Anon  ("The  Fountain  of  Oblivion"). 


[12] 


Southern^  Poets 

January  twenty-second 

Brave  and  self-centered  in  the  peace  of  God 

Is  that  true  soul  who  calmly  dares  withstand 

The  cruel  frenzy  of  the  populace, 

And  in  the  hot  red  mouths  of  hostile  guns, 

And  in  the  shining  teeth  of  million  swords, 

And  in  the  scornful  faces  of  fierce  men, 

Lifts  high  in  hand  the  heaven-bright  cross  of  Christ, 

And  meekly  pleads  for  brotherhood  and  love. 

William  H.  Holcombe   ("The  Peacemaker"). 


January  twenty-third 

Yes !  what  is  childhood 
But  after  all  a  sort  of  golden  daylight, 
A  beautiful  and  blessed  wealth  of  sunshine. 

Henry  Timrod  ("Dramatic  Fragment"), 


[13] 


^Year  Book  §f 

January  twenty-fourth 

He  dwelt  in  clear  white  purity  apart, 
Yet  walked  the  world ;  through  many  a  sufferer's  door 
He  shone  like  morning ;  comfort  streamed  before 
His  footsteps ;  on  the  feeble  and  the  poor 

He  lavished  the  rich  spikenard  of  his  heart. 

Paul  H.  Hayne  ("On  the  Death  of  Canon  Kingsley"), 


January  twenty-fifth 

Teach  us  to  pray!  for  oh!  the  earth-born  soul 
Knows  little  of  its  needs ;  and  the  grand  goal 

To  which  we  know  life  hastes  seems  far  away ; 

And  in  the  journey,  stumbling  day  by  day, 
We  need  our  Father's  guidance  to  control. 

Robert  Whittet   ("A  Rondeau"). 


[14] 


Southern;  Poets 

January  twenty-sixth 

Youth,  thou  shalt  sip  at  my  brimming  bowl ! 
The  glances  of  beauty  shall  gladden  thy  soul! 
Where  the  roses  bloom  shall  thy  pathway  be, 
And  my  smile  shall  enliven  thy  revelry ; 
But  mark  me,  youth !  when  thy  days  are  o'er 
The  favor  of  Pleasure  shall  greet  thee  no  more. 

Thomas  Semmes  ("The  Song  of  Pleasure"). 


January  twenty-seventh 

The  fire-fly  lights  the  night 
A  moment  and  then  dies ; 
The  lilacs  pine  for  light, 

With    sweet    and   odorous    sighs: 
So  Hope's  deceitful  beam 
Illumines  my  despair, 
While  still  I  sigh  and  dream, 
With  many  a  sobbing  prayer, 
Lady,  lady,  list! 
List  and  smile ! 

James  A.  Bartley   ("Serenade"), 


[15] 


"Year  Book  §f 

January  twenty-eighth 

We  know,  O  Lord,  so  little  what  is  best. 

Wingless,  we  move  so  lowly. 
But  in  Thy  calm  all-knowledge  let  us  rest — 

Oh,  holy,  holy,  holy — 

John  C.  McNeill    ("Sundown"). 


January  twenty-ninth 

Away  with  thee,  Light!  thou  "effluence  bright !" 

Make  room  for  my  ebon  car, 
When  it  wheels  on  its  track  with  its  hangings  of  black, 

I  curtain  the  Moon  and  the  Star : 
I  love  to  go  forth,  with  the  storms  of  the  North, 

To  follow  the  hurricane's  sweep, 
When  the  ships  mounting  high,  ride  up  to  the  sky ! 

Then  down  to  the  fathomless  deep. 

Carter  Landon  ("Darkness"). 


[16] 


Southern;  Poets 

January  thirtieth 

Like  serf  beneath  a  king, 
Under  the   weight   of  woman's   tyranny 
I  bow! 

Anon.     ("The  Surrender") 


January  thirty-first 

My  Mother,  when  of  thee  I  think,  or  speak, 

So  perfect  is  my  love, 
The  energy  of  language  is  too  weak, 
Its  wondrous  height  and  depth  to  fully  prove, — 
Words  fail  as  dies  the  taper  in  the  blast ; 

'Tis  known  to  Him  above, 
With  whom  we  hope  to  live  when  death's  dark  gulf  is 

past. 

Mary  O.  Buchanan  ("To  My  Mother"}. 


[17] 


'Year  Book  §f 

February  first 

In  truth  that  falsehood  cannot  span, 

In  the  majestic  march  of  Laws, 
That  weed  and  flower  and  worm  and  man 

Result  from  one  Supernal  Cause, 
In  doubts  that  dare  and  faiths  that   cleave, 
Lord,  I  believe. 

Ellen  Glasgow  ("A  Creed"). 


February  second 


The  God  who  gave 

To  the  birds  the  virgin-wings  of  snow 
Somehow  telleth  them  the  way  they  go. 

Father  Ryan  ("Sea  Dreamings"), 


[18] 


Southern^  Poets 

February  third 

As  sometimes  from  the  meanest  spot  of  earth 
A  sudden  beauty  unexpected  starts, 
So  you  shall  find  some  germ  of  hidden  worth 
Within  the  vilest  hearts. 

Henry  Timrod  ("Address"), 


February  fourth 

And  inasmuch  as  thou  hast  brought 

Thy  draught  of  water,  deemed  so  small ; 

And  inasmuch  as  at  my  call 

Thou   didst  the  work   thou   hadst  not   sought, — 
As  double  deeds,  wrought  and  unwrought, 

I  needing  none,  accept  them  all. 

Margaret  J.  Preston  ("Inasmuch"). 


[19] 


Year  Book  §f 

February  fifth 

The  dark  hath  many  dear  avails ; 

The  dark  distils  divinest  dews ; 
The  dark  is  rich  with  nightingales, 

With  dreams  and  with  the  heavenly  Muse. 

Sidney  Lanier   ("Opposition"). 


February  sixth 


I  can't  allow  my  picture  took 
De  way  you  wants  to  draw — 
A-leavin'  off  my  freedom-look 
For  fashion  'fore  the  war. 

No,  Lord!  my  picture  can't  be  caught 
By  man  wid  no  sich  manners; 
Dat's  'zactly  why  de  war  was  fought — 
To  end  dem  same  bandannas! 

Howard  Weeden  ("Aunt  Judy  and  the  Painter") 


[20] 


Southerru  Poets 

February  seventh 

In  our  aim 
Lies  all  the  difference  betwixt  pride  and  shame. 

William  O.  Simms  ("Sonnet"). 

February  eighth 

There  is  little  in  life  but  labor, 

And  to-morrow  may  find  that  a  dream ; 

Success  is  the  bride  of  Endeavor, 
And  luck — but  a  meteor's  gleam. 

/.  Trotwood  Moore  ("Success"), 


February  ninth 

And  ever  sweet  thoughts  without  words 

The  shadow  of  old  memories, 
Rise  up  and  float  away  as  birds 

Float  down  the  skies. 

Carlyle  McKinley  ("Sapelo"). 


'Year  Book  §f 

February  tenth 

'Tis  a  pleasant  thought  at  eventide, 

When  a  glory  looks  down  on  our  prayers, 
That  we  have  not  mocked  in  the  days  of  our  pride 
The  meanest  pilgrim  whose  dust  may  hide 

"An  angel  unawares !" 
And  a  beautiful  hope,  as  the  night  unrolls 

Her  raiment  of  rest  serene, 
That  we  are  nearer  the  beautiful  souls 

That  our  souls  have  never  seen. 

Frank  O.  Ticknor  ("In  Mamre"). 


February  eleventh 

What  myriad  millions  of  the  human  race, 
Formed  in  the  mould  and  likeness  of  their  God, 
Live  like  the  soulless  rocks  beneath  their  feet. 

Hu  Maxwell  ("The  Sea-Oirt  Isle"). 


[22] 


Southern^  Poets 

February  twelfth 

It's  O,  for  the  music  of  lark  and  thrush 

And  the  wandering  waters'  flow, — 
It's  O,  for  the  shaded  summer  lanes 

Where  the  sweet  shy  violets  grow ! 
My  heart  is  yearning  to  find  again 

The  ways  that  my  boyhood  trod ; 
To  know  just  a  little  less  of  men, 

And  a  little  more  of  God. 

James  Lindsay  Gordon  ("Longing"). 


February  thirteenth 

All  that  thou  art  not  makes  not  up  the  sum 
Of  what  thou  art,  beloved,  unto  me: 

All  other  voices,  wanting  thine,  are  dumb ; 
All  visions  in  thine  absence,  vacancy. 

John  B.  Tabb  ("A  Remonstrance"). 


[23} 


Year  Book  §f 

February  fourteenth 

'Tis  wooing  time !   I  listen, 

With  ear  to  the  sensitive  mould 
To  learn  if  his  coming  footsteps 

The  earth  to  the  moss  hath  told. 
'Tis  loving  time !    I  am  waiting ; 

There's  a  spell  in  the  air  like  wine — 
Ah !  heart  a  herald  is  crying 

"He  cometh— thy  valentine!" 

Annah  R.  Watson   ("Wooing  Time"), 


February  fifteenth 

Perhaps  in  us  the  darkness  lies 

That  seems  to  veil  the  world  without; 

Perhaps  our  evils  cause  our  doubts, 
And  false  opinions  blind  our  eyes. 

William  H.  Holcombe  ("Perhaps  in  Us"). 


[24] 


Southern;  Poets 

February  sixteenth 

Contented  with  little,  suspicious  of  riches, 

He  jingled  the  very  small  coin  in  his  breeches, 

And  squandered  his  substance  'gainst  precept  and  rule 

With  the  heart  of  a  king  and  the  brains  of  a  fool. 

Carter  W.  Wormeley  ("Lines  to  an  Intimate  Friend"}. 


February  seventeenth 

Month  after  month  I  followed  my  quest. 

A  bud  from  her  bosom,  a  smile  from  her  lips, 
Would  fill  my  heart  with  a  vague  unrest, — 

Or  a  touch  of  her  finger-tips ; 
Yet  no  matter  the  time,  no  matter  the  place, 

Where  roses  blossomed,  where  leaves  turned  yellow, 
She'd  leave  me  alone  with  a  smile  on  her  face 

At  a  word  from  that  other  fellow. 

Armistead  C.  Gordon  ("Tou jours  Jamais"). 


[25] 


Year  Book  §f 

February  eighteenth 

Forget  thee  ?    No  never !  the  ocean  may  cease 

Its  wild  beating  dirges,  and  roll  on  in  peace ; 

The  winds  hush  their  murmurs,  the  stars  cease  to  shine, 

The  jewel  to  sparkle  when  struck  from  the  mine. 

John  C.  McCabe  ("Forget  Thee?    No  Never!"). 


February  nineteenth 

A  murmur  from  the  sea, 

A  faint  and  dying  strain, 
Takes,  as  the  night-winds  flee, 

Their  parting  moan  again ; 
And  the  twin  voices  link 

Their  pinions  from  the  shore, 
Flutter  with  plaining  on  the  brink 
Then  on  the  sands  subside,  and  sink 

To  sleep  once  more ! 
William  G.  Simms  ("Night  Scene— How  Still  is  Nature  Now!") 


[26] 


Southerrv  Poets 

February  twentieth 

Resigned,  O  Lord!  we  cannot  all  forget 
That  there  is  much  even  Victory  must  regret. 

Henry  Timrod   ("The  Cotton  Boll"). 


February  twenty-first 

God  and  our  consciences  alone 

Give  us  measure  of  right  and  wrong; 

The  race  may  fall  unto  the  swift 

And  the  battle  to  the  strong: 

But  the  truth  will  shine  in  history 

And  blossom  into  song. 

James  B.  Hope  ("The  Lee  Memorial  Ode"). 


[27] 


"Year  Book  gf 

February  twenty-second 

Bright  natal  morn !  what  face  appears 

Beyond  the  rolling  mist  of  years? — 

A  face  whose  loftiest  traits  combine 

All  virtues  of  a  stainless  line 

Passed  from  leal  sire  to  loyal  son ; 

The  face  of  him  whose  steadfast  zeal 
Drew  harmonies  of  law  and  right 
From  chaos  and  anarchistic  night: 
Wrought  from  rude  hoards  of  turbulent  states 

The  grandeur  of  our  commonweal: 
All  hail!  all  hail!  to  Washington ! 

Paul  H.  Hayne  ("Washington"). 

February  twenty-third 

Then  I  said  to  myself  in  my  sleep, 

How  lovely  is  all  that  I  see ! 
I  shall  never  have  reason  to  weep, 

For  the  world  is  a  garden  to  me. 
But  an  angel  came  down  from  the  skies, 

And  claimed  me  at  once  as  her  own ; 
Fair  truth  shed  her  light  on  my  eyes, 

And  the  shades  of  illusion  are  flown. 

William  Maxwell  ("The  Revery"). 


[28] 


Southern;  Poets 

February  twenty-fourth 

'Tis  not  the  clashing  of  storm-clouds 
That  opes  the  sweets  of  the  flower, 
But  the  silent  strength  of  the  sunbeam 
That  blossoms  in  wealth  the  bower; 
The  fervor  and  force  of  true  manhood 
Will  make  the  many  to  quail, 
And  sympathy 
Of  great  degree 
Will  win,  where  fury  will  fail. 

Josie  F.  Cappleman  ("The  Strongest  Bond  of  All"). 

February  twenty-fifth 

There  was  but  one  I  ever  wished  to  guide 
Over  the  chasm  or  up  the  mountain  side, 
And  pipe  to  on  the  meadows  green  and  wide, 

From  shady  nook. 

Oh,  Thou  Good  Shepherd !  seek  her  in  the  path 
That  many  a  pitfall,  many  a  sorrow  hath ; 
On  her  bewildered  head  let  not  Thy  wrath 

Eternal  break. 

James  Lane  Allen  ("The  Wanderer"), 


[29] 


c4  'Year  Book  §f 

February  twenty-sixth 

Oh !  may  thy  life  be  ever  bright, 

As  aught  my  early  dreams  have  framed, 
And  not  a  shadow  dim  its  light, 

Till  heaven,   in  mercy,   shall   have   claim'd 
Thee,  as  a  being  fit  for  naught 
That  earth  can  boast,  all  sorrow-fraught 
As  are  its  brightest  visions.     May 

Thy  life  be  one  long  dream  of  love, 
Unbroken  'till  the  final  day, 

When  heaven  shall  waft  thy  soul  above, 
And  crown  thee,  as  an  angel  there, 
Who  wast  indeed  an  angel  here. 

A.  B.  Meek  ("To  a  Young  Lady"), 


February  twenty-seventh 

In   Faith's   clear  firmament   afar — 

To  Unbelief  a  stranger — 
Forever  glows  the  golden  star 

That  stood  above  the  manger. 

Theophilus  H.  Hill  ("The  Star  Above  the  Manger"). 


[30] 


Southern;  Poets 

February  twenty-eighth 

Oh !  Love  is  like  a  river-flood, 
That  rolls  and  pauses  never — 

An  ocean-tide  that  bears  us  on 
Forever  and  forever. 

James  A.  Bartley  ("Love"). 


March  first 

The  winds  are  loud  and  trumpet  clear  to-day ; 

They  seem  to  sound  an  onset  half  in  ire, 

Half  in  the  wildness  of  a  vague  desire 
To  force  spring's  fairy  vanguards  to  delay ; 
For  here  methinks  worn  winter  stands  at  bay — 

Yet  stands  how  vainly!  springtime's  subtlest  fire 

Melts  his  cold  heart  to  nothingness,  while  nigher 
Draw  April's  hosts,  and  rearward  powers  of  May. 

Paul  H.  Hayne  ("Sonnet"). 


[31] 


o4  'Year  Book  §f 

March  second 

There's   beauty   in   the  morning's   blush 

That  scatters  mist  and  gloom ; 
There's  beauty  in  the  soft  pale  light 

Of  the  silvery  summer  moon ; 
Yet  doth  the  sympathizing  heart 
A  dearer  light  to  life  impart. 

Anna  V enable  Koiner  ("Soul  Beauty"). 


March  third 


The  man  with  little  love  shall  find 
But  little  loving  in  mankind. 

Frank  O.  Ticknor  ("Diogenes"). 


March  fourth 

Out  of  night-lands,  a  wind 

Awakens  a  wave: — spent  are  the  tranquil  charms, 
Yet  the  dim  stars  are  driven  till  they  find 

Rest  in  each  other's  arms. 

A.  H.  Rutledge  ("Shadow-Stars"). 


[32] 


Southern;  Poets 

March  fifth 

Do  you  know  the  land,  the  fairest  land 

In  the  mythical  realm  of  old? 
Where  the  earth  and  the  air,  and  the  flowers  rare 

All  sleep  'neath  a  sun  of  gold? 
Where  the  elf  king's  bugle  in  winding  note 

Drowns  the  dreamy  drum  in  the  black  bee's  throat, 
And  the  fairy  queen  floats  in  a  peach-bloom  boat? 

And  the  fireflies  dance  where  the  lily  maids  meet 

And  the  flowers  are  dreams  that  lie  at  your  feet 
In  the  summer  of  Long  Ago. 

John  Trotwood  Moore   ("In  the  Summer  of  Long  Ago"). 


March  sixth 

And  sweeping  onward  through  the  dark, 
Bursts  like  a  call  the  night-wind  from  the  woods ! 
Low  bow  the  flowers,  the  trees  fling  loose  their  dreams, 
And   through   the   waving   roof    a    fresher    moonlight 

streams. 

Henry  Timrod  ("A  Vision  of  Poesy").. 


[88] 


c/i^Year  Book<g/* 

March  seventh 

Give  Fancy  freedom,  freedom  to-night ! 

Let  her  soar  up  in  the  face  of  the  stars ! 
What's  the  soul-virtue,  if  never,  in  flight, 

We  fling  off  our  sense  of  the  earth  with  its  bars? 
The  spirit  that  clings  to  its  fetters  of  clay, 

Whose  eyes  never  lift  in  a  prayer  for  a  wing, 
Hath  no  pinions  of  soul  which  shall  bear  it  away 
To  that  realm  of  delight, 
Which  is  born  of  the  flight, 
Where  the  very  soul-soaring  compels  it  to  sing. 

William  O.  Simms  ("Volans  Video"). 


March  eighth 


I  hear  the  surf  beat  on  the  sands, 

And  murmurous  voices  from  the  sea ; 
The  wanton  waves  toss  their  white  hands 

And  beckon  me. 

Carlyle  McKinley   ("Sapelo"). 


[34] 


Southern*  Poets 

March  ninth 

We  now  can  see  the  dawn  of  better  days : 
Look  at  the  South  from  shore  to  shore, 
Her  night  of  darkness  almost  gone. 
The  master,  who  the  thraldom  felt  far  more 
Than  slave,  is  now  more  free  than  e'er  before. 
Untrammeled  men  and  women  will  aspire, 
With  minds  and  hearts  and  souls  set  free, 
To  soar  to  heights  unknown,  and  ardently  desire, 
With  every  height   attained,   the   strength  to   go   still 
higher. 

Margaret  I.  Weber  ("Lines"). 


March  tenth 

Long  ago,  when  life  was  younger,  and  life's  burden  cast 

no  shadow, 

When  the  gladness  of  existence  had  a  summer  foun 
tain's  flow, 

Side   by  side  we  trod   dim  woodlands,   river  bank,   or 
haunted  meadow, 

Long  ago. 

Armistead  C.  Gordon  ("Long  Ago"). 


[88J 


'Year  Book  §f 

March  eleventh 

Dust  of  a  plain  ground  into  red 

By  armies  of  majestic  dead. 

Gaunt  shadows  on  the  changeless  sky, 

A  flock  of  vultures  swarming  nigh. 

'Mid  ashes  where  a  hearth  hath  stood, 

Children  that  cry  aloud  for  food. 

Where  green  the  peaceful  highways  run, 

A  woman  ravished  in  the  sun. 

And  far  across  the  reeking  sod 

A  nation  sounding  thanks  to  God. 

Ellen  Glasgow  ("War"). 

March  twelfth 

"Unc'  Si,  de  Holy  Bible  say, 

In  speaking  ob  de  jus', 
Dat  he  do  fall  seben  times  a  day ; 
Now  how's  de  sinner  wuss?" 

"Well,  chile,  de  slip  may  come  to  all, 

But  den  de  diff'ence  f oiler; 
For,  if  you  watch  him  when  he  fall, 
De  jus'  man  do  not  waller." 

John  B.  Tabb  ("The  Difference"). 


[36] 


Southern;  Poets 

March  thirteenth 

No  luring  forms  of  polished  art 

Would  serve  alone  our  thoughts  to  call 

From  him  beneath ;  —  a  nation's  heart 
Is  proudest  monument  of  all. 

Seek  ye  mementoes  more  ?      Look  around : 

Behold,  throughout  the  land  they're  found. 

/.  E.  Snodgrass  ("The  Patriot's  Chosen  Sepulchre"). 


March  fourteenth 

How  calm  was  that  hour !  as  calm  as  if  Death 

Had  reigned  o'er  the  land  and  the  sea — 
For  the  dash  of  each  wave,  and  moan  of  each  breath 

Spoke  but  of  repose  unto  me. 
The  green  earth  around  me  was  yet  smiling  on, 

Thought's  luminous  spirit  had  fled, — 
And  soft  from  the  sky  the  evening-star  shone, 

Like  the  hope  that  remains  for  the  dead ! 

Anon.  ("Stanzas"). 


[37] 


Year  Book  §f 

March  fifteenth 

Out  of  this  woven  web  of  sound 

Grow  clear  within  sight  and  reach 
Glad  aspirations  and  gladder  dreams 

That  never  before  found  speech; 
And  life  seems  sweeter  and  faith  completer — 

Wide  open  Love's  portal  stands, 
And  we  walk  therethrough  while  the  violin  sings 

To  the  touch  of  a  master's  hands. 

James  Lindsay  Gordon  ("The  Violin  Player"). 


March  sixteenth 

The  bluebird  flits,  and  coos  the  ring-dove  tender 

Amid  the  young  green  leaves ; 
Mansions  of  mist  and  silver,  white  and  slender, 

The  shy  wood-spider  weaves ; 
Swingth  the  swallow  to  his  old  home  under 

The  unf  or  gotten  eaves: 

Frank  O.  Ticknor  ("A  Spring  Morning"). 


[38] 


Southern;  Poets 

March  seventeenth 

The  army  of  heroes  in  the  future  that  sleeps — 

Abiding  its  time  while  liberty  weeps — 

Shall  wake  with  a  shout,  the  shout  of  the  free, 

Whose  echoes  shall  roll  far  over  the  sea ; 

As  the  lava  that  rolls  from  a  mountain  of  fire — 

Thy  children  aroused  shall  come  forth  in  their  ire ; 

And  the  tyrant  shall  feel  for  his  head  and  his  crown ; 

When  freemen  look  up  the  despots  go  down, 

And  the  cloud  that  has  hung  o'er  the  land  of  our  hope 

Will  scatter  like  mist  when  the  morning  doth  ope. 

Samuel  H.  Newberry  ("Ireland"). 


[39] 


Year  Book  §f 

March  eighteenth 

I  shall  not  leave  thee  utterly  behind, 

World  of  the  bright  blue  wave  and  tossing  foam! 
Thy  spirit  shall  go  with  me,  like  a  wind, 

To  the  green  stillness  of  my  upland  home — 
Shall  whisper,  morn  and  evening,  to  my  ear 

The  mysteries  and  the  splendors  of  the  deep, 

Nor  leave  me  in  the  dreadful  dark  of  sleep ; 
For  when  I  start,  dream-haunted,  cold  with  fear, 

The  voices  and  the  thunderings  and  the  powers, 
Heard  in  no  temple  man  hath  ever  trod, 

Shall  close  around  me  in  melodious  showers, 
And  lull  my  soul  to  perfect  rest  in  God. 

William  H.  Holcombe  ("Farewell,  O  Sea!") 


[40] 


Southern*  Poets 

March  nineteenth 

Judge  not,  God  did  not  fashion  man 

That  thou  should'st  criticise  His  plan; 

Nor  is  it  meet  that  work  of  God 

Should'st  pass  beneath   thy   chastening   rod; 

Wreck  not  thy  soul  upon  the  spot 

Within  thy  brother's  eye — 

Judge  not. 
Carter  W.  Wormeley  ("Judge  Not"). 


March  twentieth 

There  is  no  bourne  beyond  the  reach 
Of  sorrow ;  no  soul  lives  and  bides 
So  far  but  she  will  visit  each ; 
Through  every  fortress  wall  she  glides, 
In  every  creature's  life  she  hides. 
There  is  not  need  that  art  should  teach, 
For  sorrow  knoweth  sorrow's  speech. 
Robert  Burns  Wilson  ("My  Soul  She  Hath  Great  Care  for  Me"). 


[41] 


Bookg/" 

March  twenty-first 

As  the  sparkling  waters  run 

Through  shady  wood  and  sunny  valley, 
Singing  in  a  quiet  tone, 
Singing  ever- musically 

Down  unto  the  restless  sea — 
Where  the  sounding  billows  pour 
Singing  on  the  lonely  shore — 
Thus  thou  singest  unto  me 
Evermore. 

Susan  A.  Talley  ("The  Spirit  of  Poesy"). 


March  twenty-second 

Oh  human  grandeur!  fleeting  as  the  beam 
That  lights  the  vision  of  the  poet's  soul ; 

Oh  human  glory !  passing  like  the  stream 

Whose   courser-swiftness   never   brooks   control. 
John  C.  McCabe  ("The  Pilgrim  Amid  the  Ruins  of  Rome"). 


[42] 


Southern;  Poets 

March  twenty-third 

Oh !   Thou  who  fling'st  so  fair  a  robe 

Of  clouds  around  the  hill  untrod — 
Those  mountain-pillars  of  the  globe 

Whose  peaks  sustain  Thy  throne,  oh  God! 
All  glittering  round  the  sunset  skies 

Their  fleecy  wings  are  lightly  furled, 
As  if  to  shade  from  mortal  eyes 

The  glories  of  yon  upper  world ; 
There,  where,  the  evening  star  upholds, 
In  one  bright  spot,  their  purple  folds, 
My  spirit  lifts  its  silent  prayer ; 
For  Thou,  oh  God  of  love,  art  there. 

Amelia  Welby  ("The  Presence  of  God"). 

March  twenty-fourth 

The  statesman  gazing  yet  with  doubts  and  fears 

Up  the  dim  vista  of  the  coming  years — 

The  man  of  science  looking  out  afar 

Into  the  welkin  for  an  unknown  star — 

These  are  our  patriots — and  no  work  they  wrought 

Has  ever  yet  been  perfected  for  nought. 

John  R.  Thompson  ("Patriotism"}. 

[48} 


'Year  Book  §f 

March  twenty-fifth 

Love  alone  can  bestow 

Such  bliss  here  below 

As  angels  in  heaven  must  feel. 

The  rapture  and  thrill 

Of  a  love-conquered  will 

Can  never  be  found  in  the  Real. 

Duval  Porter  ("The  Refuge"). 


March  twenty-sixth 

The  mountains!  the  mountains!  they  lift  their  soul  on 

high, 

And  fill  the  mind  with  thoughts  sublime  of  vast  infinity, 
Frowning  and  massive  as  they  stand,  wide-spreading  all 

abroad, 
They  show  the  strong  majestic  hand  of  their  Creator — 

God! 

8.  H.  Dickson  ("The  Mountains"). 


[44] 


Southern*  Poets 

March  twenty-seventh 

Once  I  knew  a  silver  tone, 

Sweeter  than  an  angel's  hymn, — 
It  from  earth  methought  had   flown, — 

Flown  to  j  oin  the  Seraphim ! — 
But  thy  voice  recalled  the  spell, — 

Melody  unknown  above ! — 
On  my  heart  its  influence  fell, 

And  all  was  music, — all  was  love ! 

A.  B.  Meek  ("Long  in  Sorrow's  Gloomy  Night"). 

March  twenty-eighth 

Peace,  like  a  presence,  reigns 
O'er  all  the  hills  infold;  the  dwellers  in 

God's  vast  and  silent  plains 
Hear  His  still  voice,  unbroken  by  the  din 

Of  echoing  steps  that  beat, 
Like  pattering  rain,  the  city's  crowded  streets. 

David  R.  Arnell  ("Rural  Hymn"). 

March  twenty-ninth 

How  sweet  the  feeling  that  enshrouds  the  heart 
Whene'er  doth  softly  fall  the  voice  of  Hope ! 

Josie  F.  Cappleman  ("Hope"). 

[45} 


Bookg/* 

March  thirtieth 

I  love  thee,  oh!  I  love  thee, 

As  the  sweet  bee  loves  the  flower, 
As  the  swallow  loves  the  summer, 

And  the  humming-bird  the  bower ; 
As  the  petrel  loves  the  ocean, 

As  the  nightingale  the  night; 
I  love,  I  love  thee,  dearest ! 

Thou  being  good  and  bright. 

James  A.  Bartley  ("Love  Song"). 


March  thirty-first 

The   soul  hath  ties   in  the  mountain  breeze, 

In  the  charms  of  a  summer  sky ; 
In  wandering  along  'neath  budding  trees 

By  the  light  of  a  laughing  eye ; 
Or  living  in  isle  of  Indian  seas, 

Where  perfumes  wanton  by. 

Thomas  Semmes  ("Ties"). 


[46]' 


Southerrb  Poets 

April  first 

Spring  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 

Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 

Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain, 

Is  with  us  once  again. 

Henry  Timrod  ("Spring"). 

April  second 

Now  Spring  is  here  and  all  the  world  is  white, 

I  will  go  forth,  and  where  the  forest  robes 
Itself  in  green,  and  every  hill  and  height 

Crowns   its  fair  head  with  blossoms, — spirit   globes 
Of  hyacinth  and  crocus  dashed  with  dew, — 

I  will  forget  my  grief, 
And  thee,  O  Sorrow,  gazing  on  the  blue, 

Beneath  a  last  year's  leaf, 
Of  some  brief  violet  the  south  wind  woos, 

Or  bluet  whence  the  west  winds  rake  the  snows; 
The  baby  eyes  of  love,  the  darling  hues 

Of  happiness,  that  thou  canst  never  know, 
O  child  of  pain  and  woe. 

Madison  Cawein  ("To  Sorrow"). 


[47] 


"Year  Book  §f 

April  third 

Recalling  thee,  I  come, 
To  the  deep  silent  hours ; 
To  a  lost  land  of  flowers 

My  heart  returneth  home. 

A.  H.  Rutledge  ("To  Recall"). 


April  fourth 


I  list  to  the  roar  of  the  rising  tide, 

As  it  breaks  on  the  beach  in  its  crested  pride. 

I  drink  in  the  balm  of  the  sunlit  breeze, 

As  it  rustles  and  stirs  in  the  old  palm  trees. 

And  oh !  my  heart,  it  seems  to  me, 

We've  won  our  peace  from  the  shining  sea. 

Nannie  M.  Durant  ("Isle  of  Palms"), 


[48] 


Southerrv  Poets 

April  fifth 

And  the  stars  in  their  beauty  were  shining  above 

From  the  fields  of  the  limitless  sky ; 
And  the  zephyrs  came  whispering  whispers  of  love 

As  soft  as  the  breath  of  a  sigh. 

Hu  Maxwell   ("Afar"). 


April  sixth 


Dusk,  and  with  Hesper, 

South  wind  thou  wakest! 
With  wooing  and  whisper, 

Green  leaves  thou  shakest! 
In  the  hush  of  the  sunset  hour, 
In  the  blush  of  the  virgin  flower, 
In  the  bright  sun  flush,  in  the  soft  shower, 

Sweet  South  thou  wakest ! 

William  O.  Simms  ("Dusk,  and  with  Hesper"). 


[49] 


Year  Book  §f 

April  seventh 

Soul,  could'st  thou  bare  thy  breast 
As  yon  red  rose,  and  dare  the  day, 

All  clean  and  large  and  calm  with  velvet  rest? 
Say  yea — say  yea. 

Sidney  Lanier  ("Rose-Morals"). 


April  eighth 

A  glorious  change  has  come  to  pass; 

And  April  sky  is  overhead; 
A  glistening  emerald  tints  the  grass, 

And  flowers  are  rising  from  the  dead. 

Blush-tinted  petals  of  the  new 

Peach-blossoms  lend  a  rosy  hue 

To  fields  that  widen  on  the  view, 
To  where — withdrawn  into  a  mist 
Of  crimson  haze  and  amethyst — 

The  sky  puts  off  its  living  blue. 

Theophilus  H.  Hill  ("The  Sabbath  of  the  Spring"). 


[60} 


Southern;  Poets 

April  ninth 

I  know,  I  know, 

Where  zephyrs  blow, 
And    the    teaming    turf    upheaves; 

Our  Mother  Earth 

Is  giving  birth 
To  violets  under  the  leaves. 

Silent  and  shy, 

No  human  eye 
Will  discover  her  charm  I  ween; 

The  full-blown  rose 

In  secret  grows, 
And  bursts  from  buds  unseen. 

Margaret  I.  Weber  ("Carol  at  Sunset"), 


April  tenth 

Not  understood,  O  oft-repeated  tale ! 

Echoing  through  the  dim  corridors  of  time, 
Comes  back  the  murmur,  the  low,  plaintive  wail, 
Borne  on  yet  cursed  by  life's  blighting  rime, 
Not  understood. 

Anna  V enable  Koiner  ("Not  Understood"). 


[51] 


Bookg/" 

April  eleventh 

Last  night  I  wandered  in  dreamland 

In  the  star-lighted  dusk  and  the  dew : 
And  I  met  where  the  sunshine  lay  whitest 

O'er  the  valleys  a  vision  of  you ; 
Your  cold  hand  was  laden  with  lilies, 

On  your  breasts  there  were  roses  and  rue ; 
And  your  eyes  were  adroop  with  a  sorrow  unspoken 

For  the  dreams  that  never  come  true. 

James  Lindsay  Gordon   ("For  Music"). 


April  twelfth 

Ere  yet  the  earliest  warbler  wakes 

Of  coming  spring  to  tell, 
From    every   marsh    a    chorus    breaks — 

A  choir  invisible — 
As  though  the  blossoms  underground 

A  breath  of  utterance  had  found. 

John  B.  Tabb  ("Meadow  Frogs"). 


[52] 


Southern^  Poets 

April  thirteenth 

The  past  and  future  join  their  happy  hands 
Across  the  shining  present. 

William  H.  Holcombe  ("Listening"). 

April  fourteenth 

Come  and  listen  to  the  cooing  and  the  wooing  of  the 

dove, 
As  she  sighs  her  plaintive  burden  through  the  shady 

evening  grove, 

And  the  mellow  notes  go  floating 
To  the  sunbeams  which  are  sporting 

Far  above. 

All  the  drowsy  land  seems  listening 
E'en  the  breezes  cease  their  whistling, 
As  her  tiny  throat  is  glistening 

With  its  love ; 

And  the  fleecy  clouds  go  sailing  through  the  sky, 
And  they  listen  to  her  wailing  from  on  high, 
And  the  ripples  on  the  river 
Seem  in  ecstasy  to  shiver, 
As  the  evening  breezes  quiver 
To  her  sigh. 

Carter  W.   Wormeley  ("The  Dove"). 


[53] 


c/i  "Year  Book  §f 

April  fifteenth 

A  mocking-bird  on  quivering  wings 

Floats  up  the  woodland  ways, 
And,  glad  with  me,  he  soars  and  sings 

Our  song  of  praise. 

Carlyle  McKinley    ("Sapelo"). 


April  sixteenth 

The  thrush  and  robin  sing  their  lay, — 
The  sea-gull  soars  above  the  spray, 
And  distant,  o'er  the  silvery  bay 

Fleet  sails  are  going. 
On  every  zephyr's  breath  a  strain 
Comes,  borne  from  rustling  fields  of  grain; 
And  out  upon  the  verdant  plain 

The  herds  are  lowing. 

Anon  ("Lines  to  My  Father"). 


[64] 


Southern*  Poets 

April  seventeenth 

Come  listen — Oh  hark!  to  that  soft  dying  strain 
Of  my  Mocking-bird,  up  on  the  housetop  again ; 
She  comes  every  night  to  these  old  ruined  walls, 
Where  soft  as  the  moonlight,  her  melody  falls, 
Oh,  what  can  the  bulbul  or  nightingale  chant, 
In  the  chimes  which  they  love  and  the  groves  which  they 

haunt, 

More  thrilling  and  wild,  than  the  songs  I  have  heard, 
In  the  stillness  of  night,  from  my  sweet  Mocking-bird — 
Carter  Landon  ("The  Mocking  Bird"). 


April  eighteenth 

For  me  there  is  no  time,  no  space,  no  depth, 
No  love,  no  hate,  no  passionate  despair. 

I  face  my  destiny — to  what  has  been 
And  will  be,  I  am  heir. 

Ellen  Glasgow  ("The  Mountain  Pme"). 


[55] 


April  nineteenth 

Love,  in  Heaven's  tongue,  means  immortality 
Of  youth  and  joy. 

Paul  H.  Hayne  ("Frida  and  Her  Poet"). 
Love  to  his  own  self  is  sometimes  coy. 

Henry  Timrod  ("A  Southern  Winter  Night"). 


April  twentieth 

A   dream   in   fragrant    silence  wrought, 
A  blossoming  of  petaled  thought, 
A  passion  of  these  April  days,  — 
A  blush  of  Nature  now  betrays. 

John  B.  Tabb  ("Peach  Blossom"). 

April  twenty-first 

O  violets  !  fling 

The  breath  of  spring 
With  lavish  waste  along  her  way  ; 

Roses  distil 

Your  sweets,  and  spill 
Their  rareness  round  her  Wedding  Day. 

Margaret  J.  Preston  ("Her  Wedding-Song"). 


[56] 


Souther  rv  Poets 

April  twenty-second 

Enshrined  in  laurel  rustlings  and  perfume 

Of  myrtle  and  of  pine ; 

Burning  in  mystic  beauty,  half  concealed 

In  odorous  dusks  that  are  too  sweet  for  gloom, 

Thou,  Yellow  Jessamine, 

By  thy  own  fragrance  art  revealed. 

A.  H.  Rutledge  ("A  Jesssamine"), 


April  twenty-third 

They  are  all  raving  mad  except  you,  dear,  and  me; 

Their  dollars  bar  them  out  of  pleasures  that  we 

Make  an  every-day  part  of  our  lives,  yours  and  mine; 

We  ramble  afield,  and,  where  glory-vines  twine, 

We  sit ;  and  the  river  slips  by  at  our  feet, 

And  your  eyes  laugh  to  mine,  and  I  think,  dear,  how 

sweet 

The  world  is  and  you  are,  and,  dear,  I'm  so  glad 
That  we  see  the  world  right  and  that  we  are  not  mad ! 

Judd  Mortimer  Lewis  ("Sane"). 


[57] 


o4  'Year  Book  §f 

April  twenty-fourth 

A  wild  flower  out  of  the  wild  wood, 

Too  wild  for  even  a  name ; 
As  strange  and  as  simple  as  childhood, 

And  wayward,  yet  sweet  all  the  same. 

Father  Ryan  ("Sorrow  and  the  Flowers"). 


April  twenty-fifth 


The  night  has  come,  and  I  will  glide 

O'er    sleep's    hushed    wave    the    while, 
In  dreams  to  wander  by  thy  side 

Through  that  enchanting  isle. 
For,  in  the  dark,  my  fancy  seems 

As  full  of  witching  spells 
As  yon  blue  sky  of  starry  beams, 

Or  ocean-depths  of  shells. 

Rose  Vertner  Johnson  ("The  Night  Has  Come"). 


[58] 


Southern*  Poets 

April  twenty-sixth 

Bright  are  the  blossom-tinted  hills 

In  violet  and  cerulean  lights; 
Into  the  vale  a  luster  spills 
From  fervent  heights. 

/.  H.  Boner  ("Ballad  of  an  Old  Pine"). 


April  twenty-seventh 

All  Nature  woke! — woke  with  a  smile — 
As  tho'  the  morning's  golden  gleam 
Had  broken  some  enchanting  dream, 
But  left  its  soft  impression  still 
On  lofty  peak  and  dancing  rill. 

James  B.  Hope  ("A  Story  of  the  Caracas  Valley"). 


[59] 


April  twenty-eighth 


And  boyhood  is  a  summer  sun 

Whose  waning  is  the  dreariest  one  — 

For  all  we  live  to  know  is  known 

And  all  we  seek  to  keep  is  flown  — 

Let  life,  then,  as  the  day-flower,  fall 

With  the  noon-day  beauty  —  which  is  all. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  ("Tamerlane"). 


April  twenty-ninth 


My  chile?    Lord  no,  she's  none  o'  mine. 
She's  des  one  I  have  tried 
To  put  in  place  of  Anna  Jane  — 
My  little  one  what  died. 

As  soon  as  it  outgrows  my  chile 
I  lets  it  go  right  straight  — 
An'  takes  another  in  its  place 
To  match  de  Heabenly  mate. 

Howard  Weeden  ("The  Borrowed  Child") 


[60] 


Southern;  Poets 

April  thirtieth 

O,  Love,  ye  are  potent  on  earth, 

O,  Love,  ye  are  boundless  above, 
All  of  rapture  we  know  or  we  dream 

Flows  from  thee,  thou  immortal,  O,  Love. 

Josie  F.  Cappleman  ("A  June  Fancy"). 


May  first 

I  made  my  soul  a  song  for  her  singing, 

What  time  the  gloaming  was  yellow  with  May, 

And   the   whispering   harebells,    their   curfew   ringing, 
Swelled  the  dirge  of  the  dying  day ; 

And  out  of  the  depths  of  the  spirit's  passion 
Love,  the  great  master,  touched  the  keys. 

Barton  Gray  ("Out  of  the  Depths"). 


[61] 


'Year  Book  §f 

May  second 

Often  from  the  whispering  hills, 

Borne  from  out  the  golden  dusk, — 

Gold  with  gold  of  daffodils, — 
Thrilled  into  the  garden's  musk 

The  wild  wail  of  whippoorwills. 

Madison  Cawein  ("The  Farmstead"), 


May  third 


The  breeze  is  singing  a  joy-song 

Over  the  sea  to-day ; 
The  storm  is  dead  and  the  waves  are  red 

With  the  flush  of  the  morning's  ray. 

Father  Ryan  ("Wrecked"). 


[62] 


Southern;  Poets 

May  fourth 

'Tis  the  part  of  a  coward  to  brood 

O'er  the  past  that  is  withered  and  dead: 

What  though  the  heart's  roses  are  ashes  and  dust? 
What  though  the  heart's  music  be  fled? 
Still  shine  the  grand  heavens  o'erhead, 

Whence  the  voice  from  an  angel  thrills  clear  on  the  soul, 

"Gird  about  thee  thine  armor,  pass  on  to  the  goal !" 

Paul  H.  Hayne  ("Lyric  of  Action"). 


May  fifth 


Lo,  the  Blossom  to  the  Bee 

Yields  not  more  than  thou  to  me — 

Food  for  love  to  live  upon 

When  the  summer  days  are  gone, 

Poorer  than  they  came,  to  find 

What  was  sweetest,  left  behind. 

John  B.  Tabb  ("Memory"). 


[63] 


c4  year  Book  §f 

May  sixth 

To  mountains  hoar  and  russet  plain, 
A  joyous  sprite  I  come  again ; 
With  many  a  sweet  and  joyous  strain, 
And  break  grim  winter's  icy  chain. 

James  A.  Bartley  ("The  Song  of  May"), 


May  seventh 

No  livelier  song  was  ever  heard 
Than  the  notes  of  the  southern  Mocking-bird 
When  leaf  and  blossom  are  wet  with  dew 
And  the  wind  breathes  low  the  long  night  through. 
O  music  for  grief!    It  comes  like  a  song 
From  a  voice  in  the  stars ;  and  all  night  long 
The  notes  flow.     But  you  must  live  in  the  South 
Where  the  clear  moon  kisses  with  large,  cool  mouth 
The  land  she  loves,  in  the  secret  of  night, 
To  hear  such  music — the  Soul — delight 
Of  the  Moon-Loved  Land. 

J.  H.  Boner  ("The  Moon-Loved  Land"). 


[64] 


Southern^  Poets 

May  eighth 

White  of  the  hawthorn,  green  of  the  budding  tree, 

Soft  on  the  air  the  sorrow  of  spring ; 

Glamor  of  sunlit  waters  murmuring 
Ineffable  melodies  of  the  morning  sea ; 
Perfume  of  violets  over  lawn  and  lea 

Poignant  with  memory;  golden  throats  that  sing 

High  up  in  heaven  the  golden  notes  that  bring 
The  ghosts  of  my  old  love  dreams  back  to  me. 

Shadows  and  shapes  of  hopes  yet  unfulfilled, — 

Midnights  and  morns  through  whose  long  hours  were 

spilled 
The  dreams  that  make  divine  the  years  of  youth, — 

Wherein  all  pure  and  passionate  fancies  stir 

Ever  about  the  imaged  body  of  her 
Whose  face  is  beauty  and  whose  soul  is  truth. 

James  Lindsay  Gordon  ("Old  Love  Dreams"). 

May  ninth 

There  is  a  solemn  stillness  in  the  hour 

Of  midnight,  when  all  nature's  hushed  to  calm, 

And  she,  and  her  rich  beauties,  voiceless  pour 
Upon  the  glowing  soul  their  holy  balm. 

Thomas  Semmes  ("Love"). 


[65] 


'Year  Book  §f 

May  tenth 

Back  to  my  own  green  hills  once  more, 
Back  to  my  own  bright  sunny  plains ; 

Back  to  sweet  freedom's  glorious  shore, 

To  catch  once  more  her  thrilling  strains! 
How  leaps  the  warm  tide  in  my  veins, 

As  back  to  thee  my  wild  thoughts  fly, 

While  standing  'neath  a  foreign  sky ! 

John  C.  McCabe  ("The  Homeward  Bound"). 


May  eleventh 

Hush,  sweetest  South,  I  love  thy  delicate  breath. 

Henry  Timrod  ("A  Southern  Winter  Night"). 
"Thou  knowest  the  violets  hoard  their  odors  best 
In  the  night  absence  of  their  lord,  the  sun." 

Margaret  J.  Preston  ("Alcyone"). 


[65] 


Southern;  Poets 

May  twelfth 

A  rosebud  unfolded  its  leaves  to  the  view, 
All  crimson  with  beauty,  all  silvered  with  dew, 
Like  a  soul  which  has  fallen  from  happier  spheres, 
Yet  smiling  with  hope  through  its  penitent  tears. 

William  H.  Holcombe  ("Rosebud  and  Sunshine"). 


May  thirteenth 

He's  yours  and  mine,  is  Robert  Lee, 

He's  yours  and  mine,  Hurrah ! 
These  tears  you  shed  have   sealed  the   past, 

And  closed  the  wounds  of  war ! 
Thus  clasping  hands,  Old  Blue  Coat, 

We'll  swear  by  the  tears  you  weep, 
The  sounds  of  war  shall  be  muffled — 

"Marse  Robert  is  asleep!" 

Miss  8.  B.  Valentine  ("Marse  Robert  Is  Asleep"). 


[67] 


Book  §f 

May  fourteenth 

As  one  who  in  the  hush  of  twilight  hears 

The  pausing  pulse  of  Nature,  when  the  Light 
Commingles  in  the  dim  mysterious  rite 

Of  darkness  with  the  mutual  pledge  of  tears, 

Till,  soft,  anon,  one  timorous  star  appears, 
Pale — budding  as  the  earliest  blossom  white 
That  comes  in  Winter's  livery  bedight, 

To  hide  the  gift  of  genial  Spring  she  bears, — 

So,  unto  me — what  time  the  mysteries 

Of  consciousness  and  slumber  weave  a  dream 

And  pause  above  it  with  bated  breath, 
Like  intervals  in  music — lights  arise, 

Beyond  prophetic  Nature's  furthest  gleam. 
That  teach  me  half  the  mystery  of  Death. 

John  B.  Tabb  ("Glimpses"). 

May  fifteenth 

Ah,  hold  me  fast!  what  of  the  day? 

I  care  not  if  the  sun  be  dead, 
Nor  if  the  stars  be  gold  or  gray. 
Nay  though  the  rising  moon  be  red, 
Our  dawn  is  here,  our  night  is  past, 
The  world  may  fade — but  hold  me  fast! 

Ellen  Glasgow  ("Reunion"). 

[68] 


Southerrv  Poets 

May  sixteenth 

Life  is  spirit — and  life  is  force — 

As  water  rises  to  its  source, 

So  upward  springing  to  the  skies, 

Life  still  lives  and  never  dies. 

'Tis  just  the  bloom  that  fades  or  dies — 

The  seed  finds  wings  and  onward  flies — 

Samuel  H.  Newberry  ("Life"). 


May  seventeenth 

Over  the  dreamy  purple  hills 

My  grief  worn  soul  would  fly, 
Where  peace  her  dewy  draught  distills 

Under  a  quiet  sky ; 
There,  where  the  gentle  stars  in  love 

The  gates  of  rest  unbar — 
Where  slumber  nestles  as  a  dove, 

Over  the  hills  afar. 

Carter  W.  Wormeley   ("Over  the  Hills"). 


[69] 


Year  Book  §f 

May  eighteenth 

Vanish  the  day  with  sorrow  gray, 

Smile  earth  and  sky  and  sea, 
What    time    her   witching   fingers    sway 

The  magic  keys  for  me. 

Armistead  C.  Gordon  ("On  the  Sea"). 


May  nineteenth 

But  through  my  open  window  far  away 

Beyond  the  utmost  reach  of  traffic's  sway, 

Into  eternal  silences  I  gaze ; 

Infinitude  of  peace  and  patience  stays 

Upon  those  heights,  that  man  may  know  the  will 

Of  Him  who  calms  the  waves  with,  "Peace  be  still." 

Waitman  Barbe  ("Eternal  Silence"). 


[70] 


Southern;  Poets 

May  twentieth 

'Tis   now,   'twixt   the   daylight   and  darkness 

The  world  seems  the  farthest  away, 
And  a  conjurer's  wand  dipped  in  Lethe 

Transforms  all  the  cares  of  the  day. 
'Tis  now,  when  the  pansy-eyed  twilight 

Prom  the  mystical  garden  of  rue, 
Gives  her  portion  for  rest  and  forgetting 

'Tis  now,  Love,  I'm  nearest  to  you. 

Annah  R.  Watson   ("At  Eventide"). 


May  twenty-first 

One  slippered  foot,  flushed  as  the  blossoming  trees, 
Is  thrust,  half -naked,  in  the  bloom  and  spray 
Of  orchards,  where  throughout  the  dreamy  day 
The  sunshine  glints  the  wings  of  weaving  bees, 
And  all  her  children,  music-mad,  do  touch  their  thousand 
keys. 

J.  Trotwood  Moore   ("To  the  Spirit  of  May"). 


[71] 


Year  Book  §f 

May  twenty-second 

Your  hand  in  mine  at  the  day's  decline, 

Your  eyes  to  mine  uplifted, 
And  face  to  face  with  a  lilting  pace, 

Be  the  clouds  banked  dark  or  rifted, 
We'll  take  our  way  through  the  glad  to-day 

With  hearts  too  glad  for  sighing; 
Oh,  the  time  that's  here  is  glad  with  cheer, 

Though  the  day  be  dying,  dying. 

Judd  Mortimer  Lewis  ("To-day"). 

May  twenty-third 

Hark !  as  rises  now  the  moon, 

And  the  star  of  day  declines, 
Soaring  with  night's  growing  noon ; 

Hark !  along  yon  mount  of  pines, 
Slowly  sweet,  the  memories  rise, 

As  of  spirit  born  to  sing 
Of  the  loves  of  earth  and  skies, 

In  the  coming  of  the  spring — 
Jubilate ! 

William  G.  Simms  ("Woodland  Vespers"). 


[72] 


Souther  n>  Poets 

May  twenty-fourth 

I  stood  beneath  those  sounding  purple  spires 
As  down  the  pathway  of  her  solemn  light 
The  moon  descended. 

A.  H.  Rutledge  ("Under  the  Pines"). 

May  twenty-fifth 

Yes — oft  will  memory  call  a  tear, 
When  laughter  sparkles  in  the  eye; 

Oft  lurks  a  heart  oppress'd  with  care, 
Beneath  the  mask  of  thoughtless  joy. 

Mrs.  Little  ford  ("On  Remembrance"). 

May  twenty-sixth 

Defeat  and  failure  bring  no  shame  to  those 
Who  choose  to  die  as  free,  not  live  as  slaves ; 

Honors  fall  on  them  from  their  very  foes, 

And  Freedom  guards,  with  pious  trust,  their  graves. 

Fannie  H.  Marr  ("Virginia"). 


[73] 


Bookgf 

May  twenty-seventh 

Of  course  I'll  gladly  give  de  rule 
I  mek  beaten-biscuits  by, 
Dough  I  ain't  sure  dat  you  will  mek 
Dat  bread  de  same  as  I. 

'Case  cooking's  like  religion  is — 
Some's  'lected,  an'  some  ain't, 
An'  rules  don't  no  more  mek  a  cook 
Dan  sermons  mek  a  saint. 

Howard  Weeden  ("Beaten  Biscuits"). 


May  twenty-eighth 

Along  the   wilds,   and   feather-winnow'd   air, 

In  animating  undulations  flow'd 

The  sweetly  modulated  songs  of  Spring. 

Daniel  Bryan  ("The  Adventures  of  Daniel  Boone"). 


[74] 


Southern;  Poets 

May  twenty-ninth 

But,  oh,  how  dim  are  suns  and  stars 
Seen  through  a  mist  of  tears! 

How  dull  the  happy  sounds  of  earth 

To  sorrow-deafened  ears! 
Love,  at  thy  shrine  three  costly  gifts 

I  offer  as  we  part, 
A  withered  hope,  a  trust  betrayed, 
And  last — a  broken  heart. 

Mary  Coles  Carrington  ("Song"). 


May  thirtieth 

Much  I  have  pondered  what  our  lives  may  mean, 

And  what  their  best  endeavor, 
Seeing  we  may  not  come  again  to  glean, 

But  losing,  lose  forever. 

John  C.  McNeill  ("Recompense"). 


^Year  Book  §f 

May  thirty-first 

The  air  is  laden  with  rich  perfume, 
Borne  from  the  spot  where  the  roses  bloom, 
And  in  the  rays  of  the  soft  moonlight, 
The  dewdrops  glisten,  like  diamonds  bright. 


Time  passes  on,  and  a  withered  bough 
Is  all  that  remains  of  beauty  now; 
For  fragrance  and  bloom  will  soon  decay, 
And  mortals,  like  roses,  fade  away. 

Anon.  ("Roses"). 


June  first 

0  braided  dusks  of  the  oaks  and  woven  shades  of  the 

vine 
While  the  riotous  noon-day  sun  of  the  June-day  long  did 

shine 
Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  arms  and  I  held  you  fast  in 

mine. 

Sidney  Lanier  ("The  Marshes  of  Olynn"). 


[76] 


Southern^  Poets 

June  second 

Oh !  sweet  and  soft, 
Returning  oft, 
As  oft  they  pass  benignly, 
The  warm  June  breezes  come  and  go, 
Through   golden   rounds   of  murmurous   flow 
At  length  to  sigh 
Wax  faint  and  die 
Far  down  the  panting  primrose  sky 
Divinely. 

Paul  H.  Hayne  ("The  Breezes  of  June"), 


June  third 


And  when  in  wild  or  thoughtless  hours, 
My  hand  hath  crushed  the  tiniest  flowers, 

*  *  *  #  # 

Little  angel-flowers  with  wings 

Would  haunt  me  through  the  night. 

Henry  Timrod  ("Flower-life"). 


[77] 


'Year  Book  §f 

June  fourth 

There  are  many  fair  things  in  this  life  to  love — 
There  are  sweets  from  the  earth  and  sweets  from  above — 
I  have  tasted  of  all;  but  my  heart  whispers  this: 
There  is  nothing  so  sweet  as  a  baby-kiss. 

Josie  F.  Cappleman  ("A  Baby-kiss"). 


June  fifth 


Through  the  still  hush  of  the  night 

Where  the  far,  white  star-beams  burn, 
Up  toward  the  fading  light 

In  the  last  dim  watch  I  yearn ; 
All  earth's  dreams  are  dead  in  me, 

As  long  since  earth's  hopes  have  died; 

"Lord,  forever  at  Thy  side 
Let  my  place  and  portion  be." 

James  Lindsay  Gordon  ("At  the  Sunrise  Watch"), 


[78] 


Southerru  Poets 

June  sixth 

Every  murmur  around  dies  into  my  dream, 
Save  only  the  song  of  a  sylvan  stream, 
Whose  burden  set  in  a  somnolent  tune, 
Has  lulled  the  whispering  leaves  of  June. 

Theophilus  H.  Hill  ("Ideal  Siesta"). 


June  seventh 

Mimic  of  the  South — shy  warbler, 
Hast  thou  caught  the  firefly's  glow 
In  the  sparkle  of  thy  flow, 
Or  gathered  from  the  sunset's  bow 

Thy  shafts  of  rhapsody? 
Magnolia  blossoms  in  the  breeze — 
Art  thou  singing  now  of  these, 
While  filling  heaven's  purple  frieze 

With  incense  musical? 
/.  Trotwood  Moore  ("To  a  Mocking-bird  in  the  Pine-top"), 


[79] 


'Year  Book  §f 

June  eighth 

He  stood  beneath  the  starlight,  and  hope  was  on  his 

forehead, 

And  all  his  life  was  breathed  upon  with  passionate  de 
light ; 

And  all  things  to  his  vision  had  a  golden  glory  borrowed, 
And  angel  whispers  floated  through  the  stillness  of  the 
night. 

Barton  Gray   ("A  Lost  Love"). 


June  ninth 


Amber-belted  through  the  night 

Swings  the  alabaster  moon, 
Like  a  big  magnolia  white 

On  the  fragrant  heart  of  June. 

Madison  Cawein  ("Creole  Serenade"). 


[80] 


Southern;  Poets 

June  tenth 

We  thought  they  slept! — the  sons  who  kept 

The  names  of  noble  sires, 
And  slumbered  while  the  darkness  crept 

Around  their  vigil-fires ; 
But,  aye,  the  "Golden  Horseshoe"  knights 

Their  old  dominion  keep, 
Whose  foes  have  found  enchanted  ground, 

But  not  a  knight  asleep ! 

Frank  O.  Ticknor  ("The  Virginians  of  the  Valley"). 


June  eleventh 

Oh  seek  a  pleasant  valley 

When  thy  heart  is  full  of  care, 
And  a  forest  where  the  lulling  wave 

Can  ripple  in  the  ear ; 
The  freshness  and  the  silence 

And  the  beauty  will  impart 
Their   balm   unto   thy    fretted   thought, 

Their  peace  unto  thy  heart. 

William  H.  Holcombe  ("Nature  Consoling"). 


[81] 


Year  Book  §f 

June  twelfth 

In  all  the  trees — amid  the  flowers — 

They  hide  and  sing  and  sing, 
The  world  seems  full  of  birds  and  flowers 

Wake  up  my  heart,  'tis  Spring. 

CarlyU  McKuOty  ("/»  Spring"). 


June  thirteenth 

Unto  the  hills  I  mount  and  see 

The  vultures  of  the  mountains  flee ; 

My  failing  eyes  I  backward  cast 

To  glean  the  harvest  of  the  past. 

My  tottering  feet  have  paused  alone 

Before  the  barriers  of  the  known — 

For  onward  still,  through  wrong  and  ruth, 

I  fare — a  hunter  of  the  truth. 

ElUm  Glasgow  ("A  ffmfer"). 


[82] 


Souther ru  Poets 

June  fourteenth 

Perfume  shed  by  garden  rose 
Ne'er  to  memory  seems  so  sweet 

As  this  that  by  the  roadside  glows, 
Brushed  in  passing  by  my  feet. 

XanmU  M.  Duramt  ("Rote  <T  the  Road"). 

June  fifteenth 

Mix  with  action  when  thine  anguish  is  too  great  for  thee 

to  bear: 
Mingle  tumult  with  existence — flood  thy  life  and  drown 

thy  care. 

Hn  Maxwell  ("Tk*  Barndtft  Brief*")- 

June  sixteenth 

Love's  the  lover's  only  magic, 

Truth  the  very  subtlest  art; 
Love  that  feigns  and  lips  that  flatter, 

Win  no  modest  heart. 

Henry  Timrod  ("The  Lily  Co*fidamte~). 


[88] 


cA  'Year  Book  §f 

June  seventeenth 

Dance  to  the  beat  of  the  rain,  little  fern, 
And  spread  out  your  palms  again, 

And  say,  "Tho'  the  sun 

Hath  my  vesture  spun, 
He  hath  labored,  alas,  in  vain, 

But  for  the  shade 

That  the  cloud  hath  made, 
And  the  gift  of  the  Dew  and  the  Rain." 

Then  laugh  and  upturn 

All  your  fronds,  little  fern, 
And  rejoice  in  the  beat  of  the  rain! 

John  B.  Tabb  ("Fern  Song"). 

June  eighteenth 

It  is  enough :  I  feel  this  golden  morn, 
As  if  a  royal  appanage  were  mine, 
Through  Nature's  queenly  warrant  of  divine 

Investiture.  What  princess,  palace-born, 

Hath  right  of  rapture  more,  when  skies  adorn 
Themselves  so  grandly  ? — the  air  exalts  the  wine  ? 

When  pearly  purples  steep  the  yellowing  corn? 

Margaret  J.  Preston   ("Moods"). 


[84] 


Southerru  Poets 

June  nineteenth 

In  the  stillness  of  the  starlight 

Thou  art  resting  on  the  billows — 
On  the  waters,  while  afar,  night  smiles  to  see 
That  thy  tiny  leaves  are  tangled 

In  the  wave  which  softly  pillows, 
And  thy  silent  bed  is  spangled  bright  and  free. 

Carter  W.  Wormeley  ("To  a  Bayou  Lily"). 
June  twentieth 

They  come  as  the  breezes  come  over  the  foam, 

Waking  the  waves  that  are  sinking  to  sleep — 
The  fairest  of  memories  from  far-away  home, 
The  dim  dreams  of  faces  beyond  the  dark  deep. 

Father  Ryan  ("Memories"). 
June  twenty-first 

From  the  distant  tropic  strand, 
Where  the  billows,  bright  and  bland, 
Go  creeping  curling  round  the  palms  with  sweet  faint 

undertunes 

From  its  field  of  purpling  flowers 
Still  wet  with  fragrant  showers, 

The   happy    South   Wind   lingering   sweeps   the   royal 
blooms  of  June. 

Paul  H.  Hayne  ("A  Dream  of  the  South  Wind"). 

[85] 


"Year  Book  §f 

June  twenty-second 

If  'tis  madness  to  think  in  the  spring  and  dew, 

And  the  brown,  sun-parched  noon-time  of  summer,  of 

you; 

To  compare  with  your  laugh  every  song  of  a  bird, 
With  your  voice  every  whisper  when  branches  are  stirred 
By  the  South's  perfumed  breeze,  then,  dear,  I  am  glad 
For  this  madness  of  loving — am  glad  I  am  mad ! 
For  the  birds'  songs  are  sweeter,  the  torrent's  far  call 
Is  sweeter  and  clearer  and  dearer,  and  all 
Of  the  world,  dear,  is  changed,  like  a  gem  washed  in  dew, 
And  heaven  is  nearer,  dear,  since  I  love  you ; 
For  this  madness  of  loving  I'm  thankful  again, 
God  bless  you  and  keep  you,  and  keep  me  insane ! 

Judd  Mortimer  Lewis  ("Mad"). 

June  twenty-third 

With  locks  of  gold  to-day; 
To-morrow  silver  gray ; 
Then  blossom-bald.     Behold, 

O  man  thy  fortune  told ! 

John  B.  Tabb    ("The  Dandelion"). 


[86] 


Southern;  Poets 

June  twenty-fourth 

To-morrow !  to-morrow !  oh,  where  shall  I  be? 

My  heart  has  been  light  while  its  home  was  with  thee! 

And  still  its  warm  pulse  shall  bound  lightly  as  air, 

For  wherever  I  wander  its  home  shall  be  there ! 

And  while  it  is  absent,  with  thee,  from  my  breast, 

Its  place  by  the  presence  of  thine  shall  be  blest ; 

And  thine,  in  each  throb,  there  will  whisper  of  thee ! 

To-morrow!  to-morrow!  oh,  where  shall  I  be? 

B.  W.  Huntington  ("Parting  Song"). 

June  twenty-fifth 

Never  was  day  more  cloudless  in  the  sky — 

Never  the  earth  more  beautiful  in  view : 
Rose-crowned  the  mountain  summits  gathered  high, 

And  the  green  forests  shared  the  purple  hue ; 

Midway  the  little  pyramids  all  blue, 
Stood  robed  for  ceremonial,  as  the  sun 

Rose  gradual  in  his  grandeur,  till  he  grew 
Their  god,  and  sovereign  elevation  won, 
Lighting  the  loftiest  towers  as  at  a  service  done. 

William  G.  Simms  ("The  Mountain  Winds"). 


[87] 


Year  Book  <g/" 

June  twenty-sixth 

A  fig  for  the  fans  that  are  made  nowadays, 

Suited  only  to  frivolous  mirth ! 
A  different  thing  was  the  fan  that  I  praise, 

Yet  it  scorned  not  the  good  things  of  earth. 
At  bees  and  at  quiltings  'twas  aye  to  be  seen ; 

The  best  of  the  gossip  began 
When  in  at  the  doorway  had  entered  serene 

My  grandmother's  turkey-tail  fan. 
Samuel  Minturn  Peck  ("My  Grandmother's  Turkey-Tail  Fan"). 


June  twenty-seventh 

Young  flowers  were  whispering  in  melody 
To  happy  flowers  that  night — and  tree  to  tree ; 
Fountains  were  gushing  music  as  they  fell 
In  many  a  star-lit  grove,  or  moon-lit  dell; 
Yet  silence  came  upon  material  things — 
Fair  flowers,  bright  waterfalls,  and  angel  wings — 
And  sounds  alone  that  from  the  spirit  sprang 
Bore  burden  to  the  charm  the  maiden  sang. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  ("Al  Aaraaf"). 


[88] 


Southerru  Poets 

June  twenty-eighth 

O  hearts,  beat  warmer — warmer! 

The  storms  of  life  are  chill ; 
With  the  sunlight  of  affection 

The  darkened  bosom  fill. 
You  know  not  all  the  burdens 

Which  shackle  other  lives, 
The  daily  cares  and  crosses 

With  which  the  spirit  strives. 

Anna  V enable  Koiner  ("Heart  Throbs"), 

June  twenty-ninth 

Thy  joyousness  is  like  the  glow 

Of  the  sunbeams  on  the  sea, 
As  they  sparkle  to  and  fro, 
Laughingly,  laughingly — 
But  beneath  the  caverns  deep 
Calm  and  still  the  waters  sleep ; 
Far  too  mighty  and  profound 
For  flashing  light — for  rippling  sound — 

Thus  my  soul  lies  calm  forever — 
Silent  in  its  deep  emotion, 
Hushed  as  to  a  still  devotion. 

Susan  A.  Talley  ("The  Spirit  of  Poesy"). 


[89] 


Year  Book  gf 

June  thirtieth 

Where  sweep  the  wanton  zephyrs  with  a  slow 
And  gentle  motion  o'er  the  waving  grass, 
That  moves  beneath  it  as  a  thing  of  life ; 
Where  bend  the  wild  flowers  to  its  lambent  kiss, 
Hanging  their  heads  and  blushing  as  a  girl 
When  her  heart's  idol  whispers  in  her  ear ; 
Where  the  pink  clover  blossoms  peep  from  out 
The  rich  green  leaves  that  half  conceal  their  hue, 
Like  sprigs  of  coral  in  a  Nereid's  hair ; 
I'll  walk  alone  and  think  of  thee,  my  love. 

Thomas  Semmes   ("To  Isabel"). 


[90] 


Southern;  Poets 

July  first 

Zephyrs  of  light  have  shaken 

From  off  their  golden  wings, 
Odors,  but  lately  taken 

From  the  depths  of  Sonera's  springs. 
Tampa's  flowers  have  given 

Sweets,  that,  even  as  they  fall, 
Make  us  still  fancy  that  heaven 

Hath  somewhere  a  blessing  for  all ! 
Oh !  moments  wing'd  and  gilded, 

Ye  will  all  too  soon  have  passed: 
Souls  of  Love,  be  yielded, 

Now  while  your  raptures  last. 

William  G.  Simms  ("Songs  Be  Ours"). 


July  second 

To-day  the  woods  are  trembling  through  and  through 
With  shimmering  forms,  that  flash  before  my  view, 
Then  melt  in  green  as  dawn-stars  melt  in  blue. 

Sidney  Lanier  ("Corn"). 


[91] 


c4  'Year  Book  §f 

July  third 

Out  from  the  bay  this  summer  day, 

From  corroding  care  we  race ; 
We  sail  away  in  sun  and  spray, 

That  bronze  each  happy  face ; 
Potent  as  wine  the  bracing  brine, 

And  as  Vikings  free  are  we ; 
Almost  divine  the  joy  of  thine, 

O,  sovereign,  sunlit  sea. 

Rev.  P.  L.  Duffy  ("Yachting"). 


July  fourth 

America !  all  hail  the  name — 

Chiming  down  the  passing  ages; 
Whose  march   shall  win  the   proudest   fame, 

Blazon'd  on  time's  gilded  pages. 

It  is  her  mission  to  be  free 

And  lead  the  way  for  human  freedom ; 
To  stretch  her  arms  beyond  the  sea 

And  gather  in  the  lost  of  Eden. 
Samuel  H.  Newberry   ("America!  All  Hail  the  Name"). 


[92] 


Southern;  Poets 

July  fifth 

Deep  buried  in  the  forest  was  a  nook 

Remote  and  quiet  as  its  quiet  skies; 

***** 

Dark  oaks   and  fluted  chestnuts  gathering  round, 
Pillared  and  greenly  domed  a  sloping  mound. 

Henry  Timrod  ("A  Vision  of  Poesy"). 


July  sixth 


He  sang  a  song,  a  little  song 

No  other  poet  knew ; 
And  she  looked  up  and  thought  him  strong, 

Looked  down  and  dreamed  him  true. 

Barton  Gray  ("First  and  Last"). 


[93] 


Year  Book  §f 

July  seventh 

Magnolias  bright  with  glossy  leaves  and  flowers, 
Fragrant  as  Eden  in  its  happiest  hours ; 
The  gloomy  cypress  towering  to  the  skies, 
The  maple,  loveliest  in  autumnal  dyes, 
The  palm  armorial,  with  its  tufted  head, 
Vines  over  all  in  wild  luxuriance  spread, 
And  columned  pines,  a  mystic  wood  he  sees, 
That  sigh  and  whisper  to  the  passing  breeze. 

William  J.  Gray  son  ("The  Hireling  and  the  Slave"). 


July  eighth 


'Twas  yesterday  we  stood,  glad  in  the  dawn 

Of  the  love-mystic  land ; 
To-morrow  shall  we  turn  and  face  the  West : 

Silently,  hand  in  hand. 

A.  H.  Rutledge  ("To-morrow"), 


[94] 


Southern;  Poets 

July  ninth 

Cool-throated  flowers  that  avoid  the  day's 
Too  fervid  kisses ;  every  bud  that  drinks 

The  tipsy  dew  and  to  the  star-light  plays 

Nocturnes  of  fragrance,  thy  wing'd  shadow  links 

In  bonds  of  sweet  brotherhood  and  faith ; 
O  bearer  of  their  order's  shibboleth, 
Like  some  pale  symbol  fluttering  o'er  these  pinks. 

Madison  Cawein  ("A  Twilight  Moth"). 


July  tenth 

In  a  vanished  year  was  it  not  here  where  the  flowering 
fields  and  the  forest  meet, 

On  a  radiant  day  of  a  golden  May  to  breathe  whose  sun 
shine  seemed  so  sweet, — 

Was  it  not  here,  O  dear  and  dear,  that  I  laid  a  life's  love 
at  your  feet? 

James  Lindsay  Gordon  ("Beyond  Arvallon"). 


[95] 


c4  'Year  Book  §f 

July  eleventh 

Let  the  world  roll  blindly  on ! 
Give  me  shadow,  give  me  sun, 
And  a  perfumed  eve  as  this  is ; 

Let  me  lie, 

Dreamfully, 

When  the  last  quick  sunbeams  shiver 
Spears  of  light  athwart  the  river, 
And  a  breeze  which  seems  the  sigh 
Of  a  fairy  floating  by 

Coyly  kisses 

Tender  leaf  and  feathery  grasses ; 
Yet  so  soft  its  breathing  passes, 
These  tall  ferns  just  glimmering  o'er  me, 
Blending  goldenly  before  me 

Hardly  quiver. 

Paul  H.  Hayne  ("Dolce  Far  Niente"). 

July  twelfth 

Ah !  life  is  sweeter  than  we  thought, 

And  sorrow  softens,  even, 
As  if  our  world  had  strayed  somehow 

A  little  nearer  heaven. 

Carlyle  McKinley  ("In  Spring"). 

[96] 


Southern;  Poets 

July  thirteenth 

Waiting  for  words — as  on  the  broad  expanse 
Of  heaven  the  formless  vapors  of  the  night 
Expectant,  wait  on  the  oracle  of  light 

Interpreting  their  dumb  significance ; 

Or  like  a  star  that  in  the  morning  glance 

Shrinks,  like  a  folding  blossom,  from  the  sight, 
Nor  wakens  till  upon  the  western  height 

The  shadows  to  their  evening  towers  advance — 

So,  in  my  soul,  a  dream  ineffable, 

Expectant  of  the  sunshine  or  the  shade, 
Hath  oft,  upon  the  brink  of  twilight  chill, 

Or  at  the  dawn's  pale  glimmering  portal  stayed 
In  tears,  that  all  the  quivering  eyelids  fill, 
In  smiles,  that  on  the  lips  of  silence  fade. 

John  B.  Tabb  ("U  nutter  ed"). 
July  fourteenth 

The  loftiest-soaring  thoughts  that  ever  find 
Within  our  souls  their  transient  nesting-place, 
Elude  most  subtly  the  detaining  grasp 
Wherewith  gross  speech  would  hold  them. 

Margaret  J.  Preston  ("The  Unattained"), 


[97] 


Year  Book  §f 

July  fifteenth 

And  now  and  then  it  surely  seemed, 

The  little  streams  were  laughing  low, 

As  if  their  sleepy  wavelets  dreamed 
Such  dreams  as  only  children  know. 

Father  Ryan  ("A  Memory"). 


July  sixteenth 

It  has  come!    In  its  smile,  see  all  nature  rejoice! 

It  has  come !  on  the  flower-gemmed  hill 
Its  footsteps  are  heard,  and  its  musical  voice 

May  be  caught  in  the  murmuring  rill. 
It  has  come !  o'er  the  earth  waves  its  glorious  wing ! 

And  Thy  name,  Gracious  Father,  we  praise, 
For  the  beauty,  the  gladness,  the  brightness  of  spring, 

And  rich  blessings  to  gladden  our  days. 

John  C.  McCabe  ("Spring  Time"). 


[98] 


Southern;  Poets 

July  seventeenth 

O  sea-breeze  rising  from  the  south 
With  shadowy  feet  upon  the  sea, 

And  fragrant  kisses  on  thy  mouth ! 

Beloved  one,  bring  some  balm  to  me. 

William  H.  Holcombe  ("O  Sea-Breeze!") 


July  eighteenth 


Sleep  softly,  little  sweetheart,  sleep, 

Night's  silent  lamps  are  gleaming, 
May  hovering  angels  shield  and  keep 

Their  gentle  sister  dreaming; 
In  rose's  breast  the  dewdrops  rest ; 

So,  in  thy  bosom  white, 
May  peace  lie  locked  in  slumber's  arms — 

My  little  love,  good  night. 

Carter  W.  Wormeley  ("Good  Night"). 


[99] 


'Year  Book  §f 

July  nineteenth 

Oh,  the  days  of  our  boyhood !  the  light  on  the  sea ! 
The  path  'neath  the  trees,  and  the  dew-begemmed  lea! 
And  the  mocking-bird  somewhere  as  glad  as  can  be ! 
Oh,  the  days  of  our  boyhood  forever. 

Judd  Mortimer  Lewis  ("Mooning"). 


July  twentieth 

O  welcome  wind  that  comes  His  gracious  law  fulfilling, 

In  you  the  brown  bee  hums,  the  skylark's  song  is  thrill 
ing; 

Voices  of  wood  and  fields  your  whispering  voice  dis 
closes, 

And  in  your  breath  revealed  I  find  the  summer  roses. 

Mary  Bradley  ("Summer  Wind"). 


[100] 


Southern*  Poets 

July  twenty-first 

One  word  of  silent  prayer  in  earnest  trust 

Is  worth  eternity  of  soulless  form, 
And  words  without  devotion.   From  the  dust 

A  soul  can  be  uplifted  to  the  warm 
And  peaceful  light  of  truth.    We  cannot  thrust 

Ourselves  to  heaven,  nor  stop  the  raging  storm. 
Another  hand  must  guide  us,  and  will  guide. 
The  rest  will  come  at  last,  though  storm  betide. 

Hu  Maxwell  ("Naclmiento"), 


July  twenty-second 


As  from  a  distance  hill  and  vale 

Appear  one  level  plain, 
So  to  the  eye  of  heaven  may  be 

The  great  and  small  of  men. 

Fannie  H.  Marr  ("Fidelis  in  Parvo"). 


[101] 


Bookgf 

July  twenty-third 

We  never  value  while  possessing, 

But  we  crave  a  happier  lot, 
Hope  holds   out   a   future   blessing 

And  the  present's  all  forgot. 

John  Lewis  ("Evening"). 


July  twenty-fourth 


Earth  that  all  too  soon  has  bound  him, 

Gently  wraps  his  clay ! 
Linger  lovingly  around  him 
Light  of  dying  day! 

Softly  fall  the  summer  showers, 
Birds   and  bees  among  the  flowers, 
Make  the  gloom  seem  gay ! 

John  R.  Thompson  ("Ashby"). 


[102] 


Southern;  Poets 

July  twenty-fifth 

O  Sea  reposeful,  find  I  rest 
Upon  your  sympathetic  breast ; 

O  summer  sea, 

O  whispering  sea, 

How   much   you    comfort,    comfort    me, 
How  much  one  being  you  have  blest ! 

Josie  F.  Cappleman  ("O  Summer  Sea"). 


July  twenty-sixth 

The   breeze — the   breath    of   God — is    still — 

And  the  mist  upon  the  hill 

Shadowy — shadowy — yet  unbroken 

Is  a  symbol  and  a  token. 

How  it  hangs  upon  the  trees, 

A  mystery  of  mysteries ! 

Edgar  Allan  Poe   ("Spirits  of  the  Dead"). 


[103] 


^Year  Book  §f 

July  twenty-seventh 

How  redly  glows  the  tropic  sky ! 
How  hushed  the  distant  waters  lie ! 
It  seems  as  though  a  simoon's  wing 
Slept  silently  on  everything. 
The  palms  like  weary  eaglets  droop, 
See  how  my  fragrant  lilies  stoop ; 
Bereft  of  morning's  lucid  dew, 
Like  me  they  pine  and  languish  too. 

Julia  Pleasants  ("The  Persian  Bride"). 


July  twenty-eighth 

The  flowers  are  springing, 

Like  fairy  things  bright ; 
And  the  young  birds   are  singing 

By  fountains  of  light — 
Then  hail !  mirth  and  laughter, 

And  love,  song,  and  wine ; 
Let  sorrow  come  after — 

The  present  is  mine. 

Thomas  Semmes  ("Nunc  Tempus"), 


[104] 


Southern^  Poets 

July  twenty-ninth 

Oh,  love !  the  dew  lies  on  the  flower, 

And  the  stars  gleam  on  the  sea ; 
It  is  the  charm'd,  the  silent  hour, 

When  I  should  roam  with  thee. 
The  day  dies  out  within  the  West, 

The  shadows  gather  near; 
And  now  sweet  fancies  fill  my  breast, 

And  thou  art  strangely  dear. 
James  A.  Bartley  ("Oh,  Love!   The  Dew  is  on  the  Flower"). 

July  thirtieth 

Just  at  your  ear,  all  night  you  hear 

The  wailing  whip-poor-will; 
The  turkey  tramps  through  the  hollow  near, 

The  owl  hoots  from  the  hill; 
The  katydid  too  if  the  summer  wake  her, 

Pipes  out  from  the  flame-bush  nigh : 
Sure,  the  song  of  the  midnight  woods  is  sweeter 

Than  mortal  minstrelsy ! 
HilloIHillo! 

Robert  M.  Bird  ("The  Pine  Wood"). 


[105] 


"Year  Book  §f 

July  thirty-first 

Come,  my  love — 0 !  come  with  me, 
We  will  wander  wild  and  free, — 
Where  the  pale  moon  sheds  her  light, 
And  the  dewdrops  glisten  bright ; — 
Where  is  heard  the  gurgling  flow 
Of  the  streamlet,  we  shall  go, 
And  our  joyous  feet  shall  tread, 
Near  the  humble  violet's  bed. 
We  will  breathe  the  rich  perfume, 
Born  of  fragrant  flowers  in  bloom ; 
All  that's  sweet  and  all  that's  fair, 
From  green  earth  or  scented  air, 
Nature  brings  in  vesture  gay, 

Laughing  strews  around  our  way. 

Alexander  L.  Beard  ("Invocation"). 

August  first 

Down  I  lay 

In  amber  shades  of  many  a  golden  spray, 
Where  looping  low  with  languid  arms  the  Vine 
In  wreaths  of  ravishment  did  overtwine 
Her  kneeling  Live-Oak,  fold  to  plight 

Herself  unto  her  own  true  stalwart  knight. 

Sidney  Lanier  ("The  Bee"). 

[106] 


Southern;  Poets 

August  second 

Thousands  of  insects  faintly  sung 

In  the  warmth  of  the  southern  night. 
The  bat  flew  low,  and  the  great  owl  swung 

Like  a  bell  in  the  mystic  night. 
The  ripe  corn  rustled  its  yellow  blade, 

The  field  flowers  woke  from  their  swoon, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  wild  grape  lightly  played 

In  the  rays  of  the  rising  moon. 

/,  H.  Boner  ("Home  from  Camp-Meeting"). 


August  third 

Amber  smile  of  early  morn 
Had  flashed  across  the  ripening  corn; 
And  on  the  spider's  netting  frail 

The  dew  is  gleaming  bright, 
As  if  an  elf  had  lost  her  veil 
While  fleeing  from  the  light. 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck  ("Midsummer  Song"), 


[107} 


'Year  Book  §f 

August  fourth 

O  the  Southern  Pineland  free 

Breathes  immortal  melody, 
Like  the  immemorial  music  of  the  old  melodious  sea : 

Purer  than  the  live  oak  shines, 

Sweeter  than  the  Jessamines, 

Is  the  wild  and  lonely  liberty  beneath  the  windy  pines. 

A.  U.  Rutledge  ("Southern  Pines"). 


August  fifth 

Often  thou 

Hast  uttered,  through  some  all  unworthy  song, 
Truths  that  for  man  might  else  have  slumbered  long. 
Henry  Timrod  ("A  Vision  of  Poesy"). 


[108] 


Southern;  Poets 

August  sixth 

Wandered  a  child  by  a  green-banked  river, 
In  a  dim  low  shadow-strewn  sunset  land, 
Where  the  rushes  bend  and  shimmer  and  shiver 
Like  a  lute  soft  struck  by  some  angel  hand : 
Afar  in  the  purple  distance  hung 
One  large  round  star — and  the  moon  was  young — 
Young  with  that  pale,  calm  beauty  that  never 
Hath  been  worthily  told  by  mortal  tongue. 

Barton  Gray  ("In  Arcady"), 


August  seventh 


Aye,  odors  have  a  power — 

Most  subtle  are  their  ways — 
Of  flashing  fresh  upon  us 

The  dreams  of  other  days. 

Josie  F.  Cappleman  ("August  Lilies"). 


[109] 


'Year  Book  §f 

August  eighth 

I  love  Queen  August's  stately  sway, 
And  all  her  fragrant  south  winds  say, 
With  vague,  mysterious  meanings  fraught, 
Of  unimaginable  thought ; 
Those  winds  'mid  change  of  gloom  and  gleam 
Seem  wandering  thro'  a  golden  dream — 
The  rare  midsummer  dream  that  lies 
In  humid  depths  of  Nature's  eyes. 

Paul  H.  Hayne  ("Midsummer  in  the  South"), 


August  ninth 

A  man  should  keep  a  compact  with  himself, 
Nor  strip  himself  quite  bare  save  unto  God. 

Amtlie  Rives  ("Augustine  the  Man") 


[110] 


Southern;  Poets 

August  tenth 

Each  winding  creek  in  grave  entrancement  lies 

A  rhapsody  of  morning  stars.     The  skies 

Shine  scant  with  one  forked  galaxy, — 

The  marsh  brags  ten :  looped  on  his  breast  they  lie. 

Sidney  Lamer  ("Hymn  of  the  Marshes"). 


August  eleventh 

The  lotus  bowed  above  the  tide  and  dreamed; 

The  broad  leaved  calamus  arose  and  fell 
As  on  a  lover's  breast  the  head 
His  beating  heart  has  rocked  to  sleep ; 

And  all  the  air  was  drowsed  with  tropic  calm. 

Margaret  J.  Preston  (Rhodopffs  Sandal"). 


[in] 


'Year  Book  §f 

August    twelfth 

Clad  on  with  glowing  beauty  and  the  peace, 
Benign,  of  calm  maturity,  she  stands 
Among  her  meadows  and  her  orchard  lands, 

And  on  her  mellowing  gardens  and  her  trees, 
Out  of  the  ripe  abundance  of  her  hands 
Bestows  increase 

And  fruitfulness,  as,  wrapped  in  sunny  ease, 
Blue-eyed  and  blond  she  goes 

Upon  her  bosom  summer's  richest  rose. 

Madison  Cawein  ("August"). 


August  thirteenth 

O  shadow,  in  thy  fleeing  form  I  see 
The  friend  of  fortune  that  once  clung  to  me. 
In  flattering  light,  thy  constancy  is  shown; 
In  darkness  thou  wilt  leave  me  all  alone. 

John  B.  Tabb  ("The  Shadow"). 


Southerru  Poets 

August  fourteenth 

I'd  love  to  drift  in  a  canoe 

With  you  beneath  the  moon, 
Where  water-lilies  catch  the  dew, 

And,  far  away,  the  loon 
Sends  his  weird  cry  through  the  still  night, 

And  where  the  forest  tree 
Spreads  its  wide  boughs,  through  which  the  light 

Would  sift  on  you  and  me. 

Judd  Mortimer  Lewis  ("Adrift"). 


August  fifteenth 

Up  comes  the  sun:  thro'  the  dense  leaves  a  spot 

Of  splendid  light  drinks  up  the  dew;  the  breeze 
Which  late  made  leafy  music  dies;  the  day  grows  hot, 
And   slumberous   sounds   come  from  the   marauding 

bees: 

The  burnished  river  like  a  sword-blade  shines, 
Save  where  'tis  shadow'd  by  the  solemn  pines. 

James  B.  Hope  ("Three  Summer  Studies"). 


[113] 


Book<g/* 

August  sixteenth 

No  hand  might  clasp,  from  land  to  land; 

Yea !  there  was  one  to  bridge  the  tide ; 
For  at  the  touch  of  Mercy's  hand 

The  North  and  South  stood  side  by  side 

Father  Ryan  (''Reunited"). 


August  seventeenth 


Sun-shimmer'd  fields  of  dreaming  green, 
A  sky  blue-domed  in  azure  sheen, 
And  hill  on  hill  dipped  deep  between. 
And  with  soft  sighs  the  breezes  rise 
To  waft  cloud-kisses  to  the  skies. 

/.  Trotwood  Moore  ("Tennessee"). 


[114] 


Southern;  Poets 

August  eighteenth 

I  blame  you  not ! — I  blame  you  not ! 

But,  dearest  love,  why  came  you  not? 
And  such  a  night — 
A  very  moon  and  star  delight, 
With  pearly  clouds  so  soft  and  white. 
And,  'mong  the  trees, 
As  'twere  a  Love  itself  at  ease, 
So  frolic  and  so  sweet  a  breeze ! — 

Ah !  dearest  love,  I  blame  you  not ! 

I  sorrow — but  why  came  you  not? 

William  O.  Simms  ("I  Blame  You  Not"). 

August  nineteenth 

Tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle; 

Hark  the  tiny  swell 
Of  wavelets  softly,  silvery 

Toned  like  a  fairy  bell, 
Whose  every  note  dropped  sweetly 

In  mellow  glamor  round, 
Echo  hath  caught  and  harvested 

In  airy  sheaves  of  sound ! 

Paul  H.  Hayne  ("The  Meadow  Brook"). 


[115] 


'Year  Book  §f 

August  twentieth 

Upon  the  sea  a  vesper  calm 

Lay  brooding  over  liquid  miles, 
Hallowed  like  a  wordless  psalm 

Or  stillness  in  cathedral  aisles. 
Like  fair  nuns'  faces,  pure  and  white, 

Wave  crests  were  gleaming  on  the  bar ; 
And,  like  a  sanctuary  light, 

There  glimmered  far  the  evening  star. 

Rev.  P.  L.  Duffy  ("On  the  Beach"). 


August  twenty-first 

I  once  might  hear  the  fairies  sing 
Upon  the  feathery  grass  aswing, 
Or  in  the  orchard's  blossoming : 
Their  melody  so  fine  and  clear 
One  had  to  bend  his  ear  to  hear, 
Or  else  the  music  well  might  pass 
For  zephyrs  whispering  in  the  grass. 

Thomas  Nelson  Page   ("Youth"). 


[116] 


Southern;  Poets 

August  twenty-second 

Why  need  we  angels  in  this  vale  below, 
To  banish  grief  or  give  a  balm  for  wo? 
To  still  the  sigh  or  dry  the  rising  tear — 
Oh !  tell  me,  is  not  lovely  woman  here ! 

Anon.    ("Lines"). 

August  twenty-third 

Zephyrs  worship  you  and  love  you 

More  and  more, 
As  you  pass,  the  flowers  are  bending 

To  adore. 

Bluest  blossoms  bow  before  you, 
Orange  blossoms  quiver  o'er  you, 
Plead  to  kiss  you  and  adore  you 

Evermore. 

Hu  Maxwell  ("The  Conquest"). 

August  twenty-fourth 

The  universe  with  its  infinity, 

Is  but  the  visible  garment  of  our  God. 

William   H.    Holcombe    ("New    Thanatopsis") . 

[117] 


c/ilfear  Bookg/" 

August  twenty-fifth 

And  as  some  flood  tumultuous 

In  sounding  billows  rolled 

Gives  back  the  evening's  glories 

In  a  wealth  of  blazing  gold : 

So  does  the  present  from  its  waves 

Reflect  the  lights  of  old. 

James  B.  Hope  ("The  Lee  Memorial  Ode"). 


August  twenty-sixth 


We  sing  of  the  love  of  the  future, 

Or  toast  the  hours  gone  by ; 
But  we  do  not  see,  all  smilingly, 

To-day's  love  waiting  nigh. 

Nannie  M.  Durant  ("Aujourd'hui  C'est  a  Nous"). 


[118] 


Southern*  Poets 

August  twenty-seventh 

O  my  royal  purple  pansies 
Drooping  low  their  yellow  eyelids, 
Sweetly  sleeping  where  the  evening 
Waits  all  crimsoned  with  the  blushes 
Of  the  luscious  jacqueminot; — 
Silver  curtains  hung  from  Starland, 
Opened  and  a  lilac  cloudlet 
Floating  earthward  turned  to  pansies — 
Pansies  dozing  in  the  pearl  dusk, 
With  the  moonlight's  golden  quiver 
Folded  to  their  yellow  hearts. 

Kil  Courtland  ("A  Study  in  Purple"). 

August  twenty-eighth 

In  tears  and  in  sorrow  we  part, 

Yet  love  gives  in  earnest  most  sweet, 
And  whispers  the  hope  to  my  heart, 

In  rapture  and  smiles  we  shall  meet. 
Then  cherish  this  vision  so  fair 

Nor  shun  the  gay  pastimes  of  youth, 
For  why  should  the  bosom  despair, 

That  breathes  pure  affection  and  truth. 

John  Lewis  ("Lines"). 

[119] 


Book<£/" 

August  twenty-ninth 

Is  it  so  long, — the  path  that  lies 

Between  thy  starting  and  thy  rest? 

Seek'st  thou  beneath  noon's  burning  skies 
The  cool  soft  shades  of  evening  blest? 

Labor  and  love  make  smooth  the  roughest  lot, 

And  time  is  short  to  him  who  counts  it  not. 

Fannie   H.  Marr   ("Finem  Respice"). 


August  thirtieth 

Oh,  give  me  the  wind  that  sighs 

In  soft  Eolian  caves ; 
Oh,  give  me  the  dreams  that  rise 

Like  Venus  from  the  waves. 

I  sigh  for  the  unreal, 

Bright  dreams  of  love  and  grace ; 
I  live  in  the  ideal, 

And  loathe  the  commonplace. 

Duval  Porter  ("The  Poet's  Wish"). 


[120] 


Southern;  Poets 

August  thirty-first 

The  heart  was  young — it  was  stalwart,  too, 

To  meet  life's  fight — its  weal  or  woe, 
And  we  still  find  joy  in  the  leal  and  true 

Of  these  vanished  scenes  of  long  ago. 
Though  old,  we  cling  to  the  love  it  brought 

Nor  lose  the  relish  of  youth-time's   glow; 
For  oh !  how  sweet  was  the  bliss  it  wrought 

In  the  happy  time  of  long  ago. 

Robert  Whittet  ("The  Days  of  Long  Ago"). 


September  first 

Summer  is  routed  from  her  rosy  plains, 

The  splendid  queen  with  colors  flying  fled 
Far  to  the  south,  leaving  her  legions  dead 

Upon  the  fields  all  in  the  dismal  rains. 

/.  H.  Boner   ("The  Old  Guard"). 


[121] 


'Year  Book  §f 

September  second 

Standing  here  where  just  the  latest  ember 

Of  the  summer  dieth  with  the  day, 
And  the  shadows  of  the  dusk  September 

Sweep  athwart  the  way, 
Look  I  far  beyond  the  west  wind's  hushes, 

Look  with  eyes  that  faint  not  for  the  night, — 
Far  beyond  the  sunset's  glooms  and  blushes 

To  the  unfading  light. 

Barton    Gray    ("Looking    Westward"), 


September  third 

Sweet    are   the   perfumes    lingering   through 
This  royal  mantle  of  Autumn's  bride. 

The  distilled  fragrance  of  the  dew, 
The  odor  of  roses  in  their  pride. 

Nannie  M.  Durant   ("The  Mantle"). 


Southern;  Poets 

September  fourth 

I  heard  a  little  bird  sing  out  one  morning 
While  yet  the  darkness  overspread  the  sky, 

And  not  a  single  streak  of  rose  gave  warning 
That  day  was  nigh. 

It  sang  with  such  a  sweet  and  joyful  clearness, 
The  silence  piercing  with  a  note  so  fine, 

That  I  was  filled  with  sudden  sense  of  nearness 
To  Love  Divine. 

Mary  Bradley  ("Song  in  the  Dark"). 


September  fifth 

To  the  glorious  mysterious  westward, 
Through  the  ways  our  eyes  cannot  see, 

O  beautiful  sorrow  of  sunset, 
We  turn,  we  turn  unto  thee. 

A.  H.  Rutledge   ("Sunset"), 


[123] 


'Year  Book  §f 

September  sixth 

The  sun  had  set ;  and  wold,  and  stream,  and  air 
Slept  in  the  Sabbath  of  his  chastened  light, 

While  scarce  discerned  in  blue,  a  crescent  fair, 

Upturned,  poured  dews  upon  a  neighboring  height ; — 
When,  suddenly,  all  the  sky  between  grew  white, 

And  silvered  into  cloud,  that,  as  it  drew 

Towards  the  horizon,  was  in  blackness  dight ; 

'Till,  as  some  bird  of  prey  had  hither  flew, 

Above  the  dying  day  its  condor  wings  it  threw. 

David  R.  Arnell  ("An  Autumn  Storm"). 


September  seventh 

Sweet  friends 

Man's  love  ascends 
To  finer  and  diviner  ends 
Than  man's  mere  thought  e'er  comprehends. 

Sidney  Lanier    ("The  Symphony"). 


[124] 


Southern;  Poets 

September  eighth 

I  know  not  why  I  love  the  cloud-lined  hills, 
Stretching  away  so  faint  in  trembling  rills 
Of  smoke-blue  ether.    Far  away  they  seem 
Like  fixed  billows  of  the  ocean — like  the  dream 
Of  the  sea,  when  in  his  mad  and  wild  unrest 
He  longs  to  sleep  upon  his  earth-bride's  breast. 
Transfixed  his  waves — in  blue  and  brown  they  stand, 
The  image  of  the  ocean  in  the  land. 
The  trees  that  tower  in  the  twilight  far 
Are  masts  of  bannered  ships  with  naked  spar, 
While  o'er  the  crest,  like  lighthouse  lamp,  shines  out  the 
evening  star. 

John  Trotwood  Moore  ("The  Hills"}. 

September  ninth 

Could  we  but  lift  the  latch  of  the  door 

And  see  what  the  future  has  in  store ; 

We  know  we  would  look  with  wondering  eyes, 

And  see  all  the  blessings  hid  in  disguise. 

For  God  in  His  wisdom  gives  darkness  and  light, 

To  teach  us  to  journey  by  faith  and  by  sight. 

Samuel  H.  Newberry   ("Song"). 


[125] 


'Year  Book  §f 

September  tenth 

Ah,  God !  for  the  wings  of  the  eagle  above  me, 
With  their  steadfast  vigor  and  royal  might; 

Ah,  God!  for  an  impulse  like  theirs  to  move  me 

In  endless  courses  of  upward  flight ; 
The  clouds  may  billow,  the  vapors  heave, 
But  still  his  pinions  the  darkness  cleave; 
And  proudly  serene  in  those  realms  above  me, 

He  soars  from  conquering  height  to  height. 

Paul  H.  Hayne    ("Above   the  Storm"). 


September  eleventh 

De  stars  is  all  a-shinin' 
Up  in  de  silunt  sky, 
De  birds   is   all  a-noddin' 

Up  in  de  cedars  high, 

Go  to  sleep,  my  darlin'  babies,  ole  mammy's  settin'  near, 
Ter  help  de  angils  gward  yuh  from  eb'ry  sort  er  fear. 

Annah  R.   Watson    ("Mammy's  Lullaby"). 


[126] 


Southern;  Poets 

September  twelfth 

Here  Beauty  holds  her  Court,  her  gracious  King 
The  sovereign  sun;  her  suite  the  flowers  ablaze 
With  radiant  raiment  woven  by  Southern  rays, 
The  placid  woodland  waters  mirroring 
The  flowery  splendors  of  the  bourgeoning  Spring. 
Here  petalled  portieres  deck  the  walls  of  bloom ; 
Azaleas  aflame  the  halls  illume ; 
Magnolias  column  stately  avenues, 
Gleaming  arcades,  marbled  with  lucent  hues. 

The  sunlit  air  is  vibrant  with  perfume 
Sweeter  than  music  and  each  bud  unblown 
Incenses  Beauty  on  her  glowing  throne. 

The  roses  breathe  their  homage  all  day  long, 
Spring  is  her  vassal,  life  a  scented  song. 
Rev.  P.  L.  Duffy   ("Magnolia  Gardens  on  the  Ashley"). 

September  thirteenth 

What  is  the  power  that  holds  one  hour  of  life  undying 

though  others  die? 
I  have  seen  the  blaze  of  a  thousand  days  fade  from  the 

blue  of  a  cloudless  sky 
And  just  one  day  of  one  sun-sweet  May  shines  crystal 

clear  in  my  memory. 

James   Lindsay    Gordon    ("Beyond  Arvallon"). 

[127] 


Book  §f 

September  fourteenth 

How  much  would  I  care  for  it,  could  I  know, 
That  when  I  am  under  the  grass  or  snow, 
The  ravelled  garments  of  life's  brief  day 
Folded,  and  quietly  laid  away  ; 
The  spirit  let  loose  from  mortal  bars, 
And  somewhere  away  among  the  stars  : 
How  much  do  you  think  it  would  matter  then 
What  praise  was  lavished  upon  me,  when, 
Whatever  might  be  its  stint  or  store, 
It  neither  could  help  nor  harm  me  more? 

Margaret  J.  Preston  ("Before  Death"). 


September  fifteenth 

A  nameless  sorrow  haunts  the  air 

With  whispers  vague  and  scattered  ; 
It  echoes  round  each  blossom  fair 
By  zephyrs  lately  flattered. 
The  rose  at  night 
Awakes  in  fright 

From  dreams  of  beauty  shattered. 
Samuel  Minturn  Peck  ("The  Passing  of  Summer"). 


[128] 


Southern;  Poets 

September  sixteenth 

Magician  he,  who  autumn  nights, 

Down  from  the  starry  heavens  whirls ; 

A  harlequin  in  spangled  tights, 

Whose  wand's  touch  carpets  earth  with  pearls. 

Madison  Cawein  ("Frost"). 


September  seventeenth 


The  wind  is  wailing  in  the  pines ; 
My  boat  is  rocking  in  the  sea ; 
The  last  light  dies  in  fading  lines ; 
The  world  will  soon  be  dark  to  me : 

Oh  let  me  go ! 

Cut  loose  the  frail,  the  single  strand 
That  holds  my  rocking  boat  to  land, 
And  let  me  go ! 

William  H.  Holcombe   ("Let  Me  Go!"). 


[129] 


'Year  Book  gf 

September  eighteenth 

Leafless,  stemless,  floating  flower, 
From  a  rainbow's  scattered  bower, 
Like  a  bubble  of  the  air 
Blown  by  fairies,  tell  me  where 
Seed  or  scion  I  may  find 
Bearing  blossoms  of  thy  kind. 

John  B.  Tabb  ("The  Butterfly"). 


September  nineteenth 

When  the  bells  of  evening  ring 
And  the  hush  of  night  is  falling, 
When  the  weary  earth  seems  calling 
Through  the  shadows  as  they  cling ; 
There  is  stillness  in  the  twilight 
With  a  prophecy  complete 
Of  a  rest  secure  and  sweet, 
When  the  bells  of  evening  ring. 

Carter  W.  Wormeley  ("Evening  Bells"). 


[130] 


Southern*  Poets 

September  twentieth 

The  twilight  hours  as  birds  flew  by, 

As  lightly  and  as  free  ; 
Ten  thousand  stars  were  in  the  sky, 

Ten  thousand  on  the  sea ; 
For  every  wave  with  dimpled  face, 

That  leaped  upon  the  air, 
Had  caught  a  star  in  its  embrace 

And  held  it  trembling  there. 

Amelia   Welby   ("Twilight  at  Sea"). 


September  twenty-first 

Never  a  song  that  the  breeze  whispers  low, 
Never  a  measure  that  the  bugles  may  blow, 

Like  the  lilt  and  the  croon 

Of  the  old-fashioned  tune 
That  babes  in  the  arms  of  their  glad  mothers  know. 

Judd  Mortimer  Lewis   ("The  Mother-Tone"). 


[131] 


Bookg/" 

September  twenty-second 

In  the  sunset's  glow 
The  shore  shelved  low 

And  snow-white,  from  far  ridges  screened  with  shade 
Of  drooping  palm. 

Father  Ryan   ("Rhyme"). 


September  twenty-third 

A  violeen  is  like  an  'ooman,  mighty  hard  to  guide, 
And  mighty  hard  to  keep  in  order  after  once  it's  buyed. 
Dere's  alluz  somefin'  bout  it  out  ob  kelter,  more  or  less, 
An'  'tain't  de  fancies'-lookin'  ones  dat  alluz  does  de  bes'. 
Irwin  Russell  ("Christmas  Night  in  the  Quarters"). 


[132] 


Southern*  Poets 

September  twenty-fourth 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  note  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo ; 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

The  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 
Theodore  O'Hara  ("The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead"). 

September  twenty-fifth 

Give  me  your  hand,  Old  Blue  Coat, 

Let  us  talk  of  this  awhile, 
For  the  prettiest  march  of  all  the  war 

Was  this  of  rank  and  file! — 
Was  the  passing  of  that  army, 

When  'twas  hard,  I  ween,  to  keep 
Those  men  from  crying  out,  "Hurrah ! 

Marse  Robert  is  asleep  !" 

Miss  8.  B.  Valentine  ("Marse  Robert  Is  Asleep"). 


[133] 


c/i  'Year  Book  §f 

September  twenty-sixth 

Swaying  and  singing,  a  mocking-bird, 

And  this  was  the  soul  of  the  song  I  heard — 

O  love,  O  love, 

From  the  blue  above, 

From  the  gleaming  sheen 

Of  the  leaflets  green, 
From  each  flower-heart  you  leap,  O  love. 

Josie  F.  Cappleman  ("A  Love  Song"), 


September  twenty-seventh 

When  autumn  skies  are  deeper  blue 

Than  any  skies  June  ever  knew ; 
When  frost  has  touched  the  mellow  air 

Till  yellow  leaves  fall  everywhere ; 
When  wild  grapes  scent  the  winds  with  wine, 

And  ripe  persimmons  give  the  sign, 
Then  Life  seems  happy  as  a  rhyme 

Because — it's  nearly  'Possum  time ! 

Howard  Weeden   ("'Possum  Time"). 


[134] 


Southern*  Poets 

September  twenty-eighth 

'Tis  a  beauteous  time, — 'tis  a  holy  time — 
The  sweet  still  days  of  the  autumn  prime; 
When  Nature  sadly  and  meekly  fair, 
Seems  bowed  with  awe  at  her  silent  prayer ; 
And  well  may  man,  from  his  pride  beguiled, 
A  lesson  learn  from  her  teaching  mild, — 
Go  forth  to  the  dim  and  solemn  wood, 
And  there  commune  with  his  soul  and  God. 

Susan  A.  Talley   ("Autumn"). 


September  twenty-ninth 

Life's    a    flower — its    bloom    eternal 
Lends  brief  glory  unto  day. 

Life's  a  river,  restless  ever, 

Onward  still  its  waters  flow; 
Murmuring  and  ceasing  never, 

Making  notes   of  bliss   and   woe. 

Anon.  ("Lays  of  Courage"). 


[135] 


Book<gf 

September  thirtieth 

Torch-bearers  are  the  grim  black  pines ; 
Their  torches  are  the  flaming  vines 
Bright  on  the  mountain's  skyward  lines. 

Philip  P.  Cooke  ("The  Mountains"). 


October  first 

There's  something — but  what  I  can  scarcely  divine, — 
Perchance  'tis  the  breath  like  a  potent  wine, 

Of  the  cordial  clear  October, 

Which  makes,  when  the  jovial  month  comes  round, 
The  life-blood  bloom,  and  the  pulses  bound, 
And  the  soul  spring  forth  like  a  monarch  crown'd, — 

God's  grace  on  the  brave  October. 

Paul  H.  Hayne   ("October"). 


£136] 


Southern;  Poets 

October  second 

Nations   themselves   are   but   the   monuments 
Of  deathless  men,  whom  the  Divine  intents 
Decree  for  mighty  purposes. 

William  O.  Simms    ("Calhoun"). 

October  third 

Autumn  winds  are  sadly  sighing, 
Autumn  leaves   are  withered  lying, 
Like  the  summer  she  is  dying — 
Weep  for  her. 

Mary  O.  Wells  ("A  Lament"). 


October  fourth 


Gather  leaves  and  grasses, 

Love,  to-day, 
For  the  autumn  passes 

Soon  away. 

Chilly  winds  are  blowing, 
It  will  soon  be  snowing. 

J.  H.  Boner  ("Gather  Leaves  and  Grasses"). 


[137] 


o4  'Year  Book  §f 

October  fifth 

To  give  labor  to  the  poor, 

The  whole  sad  planet  o'er, 

And  save  from  want  and  crime  the  humblest  door, 
Is  one  among  the  many  ends  for  which 
God  makes  us  great  and  rich ! 

Henry   Timrod    ("Ethnogenesis") 


October  sixth 

All  the  earth  is  full  of  beauty,  all  the  sky  in  azure  fold, 
And  the  sunshine  in  its  softness  melts  in  dreamy  waves 

of  gold, 
The  wild  goose  flying  southward  sounds   its   startled, 

clarion  note, 
And  the  trumpet  of  the  harvest  march  is  in  his  echoing 

throat, 
While  the  flashing  of  a  thousand  cotton  banners'  mid  the 

corn, 
Like  our  skies,  are  red  at  evening  but  are  silver  in  the 

morn. 

John  Trotwood  Moore  ("A  Harvest  Song"). 


[138] 


Southern;  Poets 

October  seventh 

And  we — we  weep  him  not  whose  task  is  ended, 
Whose  glorious  future  outshines  all  success; 

Though  on  his  grave  a  whole  world's  tears  descended, 
We  could  not  love  him  more — nor  mourn  him  less. 

Barton  Gray   ("Robert  Edward  Lee"). 


October  eighth 

Misname   not   thou   an   idle   dream,   the   ardent   poet's 

thought, 
Who  makes  his  brotherhood  of  things  from  Nature's 

treasures  brought ; 
Their  voiceless  beauty  speaks  to  him  in  language  sweet 

and  clear,  , 
A  music,  and  a  melody  than  earthly  tones  more  dear ! 

Anon.  ("The  Themes  of  Song"). 


[139] 


'Year  Book  §f 

October  ninth 

When  Autumn's  parting  days  grow  cold  and  brief 
Light  hoar-frost  sparkles  on  the  fallen  leaf, 
The  breezeless  pines,  at  rest,  no  longer  sigh, 
Bright,  pearl-like  clouds  hang  shining  in  the  sky. 

W.  J.  Gray  son  ("The  Hireling  and  the  Slave"). 


October  tenth 

A-dream  and  'mid  wild  asters  filled  with  rain, 
I  glimpsed  her  cheeks  red-berried  by  the  breeze, 

In  her  dark  eyes  the  night's  sidereal  stain. 
And  once  upon  an  orchard's  tangled  path, 

When  all  the  golden-rod  had  turned  to  brown, 
Where  russets  rolled  and  leaves  were  sweet  of  breath, 
I  have  beheld  her  'mid  her  aftermath 

Of  blossoms  standing  in  her  gypsy  gown, 

Within  her  gaze  the  deeps  of  life  and  death. 

Madison   Cawein    ("October"). 


[140] 


Souther rv  Poets 

October  eleventh 

The  sun  at  morn 
Rose  fair  as  at  Creation's  dawn. 
And  every  little  leaf  and  flower, 
That  grew  beneath  his  kindly  power, 
Bore  on  its  breast  a  dewy  gem 
Bright  as  monarch's  diadem. 
The  courting  birds  that  filled  the  woods, 
Which  else  were  silent  solitudes, 
Awakening  by  the  morning  ray 
Seemed  joying  in  the  early  day, 
As  from  the  boughs  of  bush  and  tree 
Their  mating  songs  came  merrily. 

Lewis  F.   Thomas    ("Inda"), 

October  twelfth 

The  golden-rod  was  aflame  in  the  fields, 

With  dew  was  the  green  grass  wet ; 
A  faint  blue  haze  hung  over  the  hills, 

Where  the  earth  and  the  sky  lines  met. 
And  the  green  of  the  grass  and  the  gold  of  the  fields, 

Where  the  grain  in  the  summer  stood, 
Were  swathed  in  dreams  that  drifted  slow 

On  the  breath  of  the  russet  wood. 

Annah  R.  Watson  ("In  October"). 

[141] 


Year  Book  §f 

October  thirteenth 

Oh,  is  not  this  the  utmost  pang  of  sin, 

To  know  thyself  destroyed  by  thine  own  act ! 

Lo !  on  a  sudden  how  the  void  boils  o'er 

With  scarlet  mists  that  wreathe  and  cling  about  me. 

They  are  the  phantoms  of  my  delicate  vices. 

Amtlie  Rives  ("Augustine  the  Man"). 


October  fourteenth 

If  to  stretch  a  hand  to  the  hands  that  needed,  if  to 

soften  the  path  unto  weary  feet, — 
If  fair  deeds  done  in  life's  silent  places,  because  such 

deeds  to  his  heart  were  sweet, — 
If  these  make  light  on  the  shadowed  waters,  he  has  gone 

where  a  thousand  splendors  meet. 

James  Lindsay  Gordon   ("Gone  Seaward"). 


[142] 


Southerrv  Poets 

October  fifteenth 

We  never  know  each  other  here, 
No  soul  can  here  another  see — 

To  know — we  need  a  light  as  clear 
As  that  which  fills  eternity. 

Father  Ryan   ("Thoughts"). 


October  sixteenth 


Perched  amid  the  withered  grass, 
Like  a  friar  singing  mass 

O'er  the  blossoms  dead; 
Hauntingly  a  note  of  woe 
Echoes  from  thy  tremolo, 

Mourning  beauty  fled. 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck  ("To  a  Cricket"). 


[143] 


<iA  'Year  Book  §f 

October  seventeenth 

Human   hearts    are  weak   and   wailing — 

But  the  human  mind  is  strong, 
And  an  iron  will  availing 

To  oppose  the  sternest  wrong. 

Julia  Pleasants  ("The  Present"). 


October  eighteenth 

What  can  I  crave  of  good 

That  here  I  find  not?     Nature's  stores  are  spread 
Abroad  with  such  profusion,  that  I  would 
Not  have  one  glory  added,  if  I  could 
Beneath  or  overhead. 

Margaret  J.  Preston   ("Nunc  Dimittis"). 


[144] 


Southern;  Poets 

October  nineteenth 

I  am  sitting  by  a  window  that  is  open  to  the  South, 

And  a  magic  perfumed  sweetness  is  pervading  all  the 

air, 

And  it  comes  to  me  as  softly  as  red  kisses  on  the  mouth, 
And   the   breeze   is    like   slim    fingers   softly   moving 

through  my  hair. 
Oh,  crape-myrtle  leaves  are  scarlet,  I  can  see  them  flame 

afar, 
And  the  golden  cosmos  morning  is  a-drip  with  silver 

dew; 
Oh,  I  long  to  come  and  seek  you,  come  and  find  you 

where  you  are, 

Just  to  bring  the  lovely  pictures  of  the  Southland  to 
your  view. 

Judd  Mortimer  Lewis  ("Pictures  of  the  Southland"). 

October  twentieth 

There  are  thoughts  in  my  heart  to-day 
That  are  not  for  human  speech ; 

But  I  hear  them  in  the  driving  storm, 
And  the  roar  upon  the  beach. 

Henry  Timrod  ("Hark  to  the  Shouting  Winds"). 

[145] 


Bookg/" 

October  twenty-first 

Behold,  the  fleeting  swallow 

Forsakes  the  frosty  air ; 
And  leaves  alert  to  follow, 

Are  falling  everywhere, 
Like  wounded  birds,  too  weak 
A  distant  clime  to  seek. 

John  B.  Tabb  ("October"), 


October  twenty-second 

The  night  was  beautiful.     A  silence  slept 
Serenely  over  all  the  world  of  waves, 
•  Save  ever  and  anon  the  roar  and  moan 
Of  billows  on  the  reef,  or  the  wild  cry 
Of  sea-birds  screaming  through  the  startled  night ; 
Or  the  hoarse  howl  and  bay  of  ocean  dogs 
That  swam  from  rock  to  rock.     But  all  this  passed 
And  came  at  intervals ;  and  night  hung  dull 
About  the  island  hills. 

Hu  Maxwell  ("The  Sea-Oirt  Isle"). 


[146] 


Southern^  Poets 

October  twenty- third 

She's    a    well-poised,    queenly    creature 

As  she  moves  in  tune  and  time, 
And  graceful  as  the  lily 

Of  her  own  soft,  sun-kissed  clime; 
With  an  air  half  pride,  half  pathos ; 

A  voice  like  brooklets'  purl ; 
With  ways  that  haunt  and  hold  one — 

Our  gracious  Southern  Girl. 

Josie  F.  Cappleman  ("The  Southern  Girl"). 

October  twenty-fourth 

Old  age  has  come ! 
But  'tis  the  expectant  dawn, 

And  glitters  splendid  with  the  dew 
Of  fostered  friendships,  leal  and  true ; 
And  heartsome  deeds  of  kindness,  sown 
Long  long  ago,  as  fruits  are  known, 

Which  come  to  harvest  in  these  quiet  days 
And  yield  coy  pleasures  in  life's  simpler  ways 
Since  age  has  come ! 

Robert   Whittet   ("When  Age  Has  Come"). 


[147] 


'Year  Book  §f 

October  twenty-fifth 

The  earth  is  eloquent  of  man :  his  thoughts, 

His  work,  his  plans,  his  schemes,  his  sin,  his  strife; 

And  like  a  monumental  stone,  is  wrought 
With  deep-cut  records  of  his  transient  life. 

But  to  the  sky  the  higher  task  is  given 

To  tell  of  God,  and  purity,  and  heaven. 

Fannie  H.  Marr  ("The  Sky"). 


October  twenty-sixth 

I  wandered  away  in  my  dreaming — 

It  mattered  but  little  to  me 
The  way  that  my  feet  were  wending, 

So  long  as  my  spirit  was  free. 
So  weary  was  I  of  earth's  travel, 

I  journeyed  away  to  a  clime 
To  find  for  my  soul  some  Eden — 

Not  found  in  the  desert  of  time. 

Samuel  H.  Newberry   ("Ideal"). 


[148] 


Southern;  Poets 

October  twenty-seventh 

Give  me,  give  me  here  my  tea; 
Ladies'  nectar !  give  it  me ; 
Sweet  as  what  the  Hummer  sips, 
Or  the  dew  on  Beauty's  lips. 
Tea  'tis  makes  the  spirit's  flow, 
Tickles  up  the  heart  of  wo, 
Sets  the  tongue,  enlivens  wit, 
Gives  the  sweet  poetic  fit. 
Tea   'tis   makes   the   charming   fair 
Sprightly,  pleasing,  as  they  are. 
What  is  more  than  all,  'twas  Tea, 
Tea,  that  set  Columbia  free. 

William  Maxwell  ("Tea"). 


October  twenty-eighth 

Already  o'er  the  sea-girt  hill, 

The  blasts  that  lead  the  tempest  blow ; 

And  lo !  the  frightened  billows  swell 
And  whiten  all  the  shore  below. 

John  Shaw  ("The  Autumn  Flower"). 


[149] 


c/l'Year  Bookg/* 

October  twenty-ninth 

The  City— the  City— its  glare  and  din— 
Oh !  my  soul  is  sick  of  its  sights  and  shows, 
My  spirit  is  cramp'd,  and  my  soul  pent  in — 
I  can  scarcely  think,  and  it  seems  to  me 
My  very  breathing  is  not  so  free, 
As  where  the  breeze  in  its  freedom  blows, 
And  the  vines  untrammel'd  but  seem  to  be 
Disporting  to  tell  of  their  liberty. 
There,  there  I'd  be — Oh !  my  spirit  pines 

For  the  river,  the  trees,  and  the  forest  vines. 

Anon.    ("The  City"). 

October  thirtieth 

As  the  lifewarm  helianthus   leans   to   brightness   from 

above, 
So  a  woman's  deep  existence  turns  to  him  who  speaks  of 

love — 
Turns  to  him  who  softly  whispers  words  almost  too  low 

to  hear ; 
But  she  knows  the  meaning-words  are  ne'er  too  low  for 

woman's  ear ; 
Meaning  never  is   too   hidden   for  the  wisdom   of  her 

heart — 

To  interpret  love  unspoken  is  a  woman's  native  art. 

Hu  Maxwell   ("The  Bandit's  Bride"). 

[150] 


Southern;  Poets 

October  thirty-first 

What  a  brave  splendor 
In  the  October  air !     How  rich  and  clear, 
And  bracing  and  all-j  oy  ous  !   We  must  render 
Love  to  the  spring-time,  with  its  sproutings 

As  to  a  child  quite  dear ; 
But  autumn  is  a  thing  of  perfect  glory, 

A  manhood  not  yet  hoary. 

A  strong  joy  fills 

(A  joy  beyond  the  tongue's  expressive  power) 
My  heart  in  autumn  weather  fills  and  thrills! 
And  I  would  rather  stalk  the  breezy  hills, 

Descending  to  my  bower 
Nightly,   by   the  sweet   spirit   of  Peace  attended, 

Than  pine  where  life  is  splendid. 

Philip  P.  Cooke   ("Life  in  the  Autumn  Woods"), 

November  first 

Landward,   rise  the  moss-veiled  trees; 
And  they  wail,  the  while  they  sway 
In  the  sad  November  breeze. 

Father  Ryan  ("Sea  Rest"). 


[151] 


'Year  Book  §f 

November  second 

"Love  is  such  living,  Sweet ;" 
Thus  I  dreamed  in  my  dream ; 
"Each  unto  each  complete, 
Stars  in  a  lustral  stream, 
That  the  waves  move  to  meet, 
Love  is  such  living,  Sweet." 

A.  H.  Rutledge  ("Revelation"). 

November  third 

The  wintry  wind  is  shrieking 

Like  some  wild  thing  in  wrath, 
And  snaps  the  hoary  beechen-boughs, 

And  stamps  them  in  their  path. 

Margaret  J.  Preston  ("Rosalie"). 

November  fourth 

His  thoughts  went   forth  like  Emperors,   and  all 
His  words  arrayed  themselves  around  them  like 
Imperial  guards. 

James  B.  Hope  ("A  Friend  of  Mine"). 


[152] 


Southern*  Poets 

November  fifth 

From  West  to  East,  from  wood   to   wood,   along  the 

forest  side, 
The  winds — the  sowers  of  the  Lord, — with  thunderous 

footsteps  stride; 
Their  stormy  hands  rain  acorns  down ;  and  mad  leaves 

wildly  dyed, 
Like  tatters  of  their  rushing  cloaks,  stream  round  them 

far  and  wide. 

Madison   Cawein    ("Sunset   in   Autumn"). 


November  sixth 

Yet  out  of  the  shackles  of  error 

Throbs  forth  the  imperious  will, 
And  darkness  is  shorn  of  its  terror, 

Though  life  be  a  battle-ground  still. 
What  though  every  meadow  be  sterile  ? 

What  though  every  pathway  be  rough? 
Faith  gleams  through  the  loss  and  the  peril 

And  Faith  is  enough. 

Barton  Gray   ("Expectans  Expectavi"). 


[153] 


^Year  Book  §f 

November  seventh 

There's  many  a  thought  I  may  not  tell, 
Hidden  beneath  the  heart's  deep  swell; 
There's  many  a  sweet  and  tender  sigh 
Breathed  out  when  only  God  is  nigh; 
And  each  familiar  thing  I  see 
Is  blended  with  the  thought  of  thee. 

Anon.  ("To 


November  eighth 

The  fir-tree  felt  it  with  a  thrill 

And  murmur  of  content ; 
The  last  dead  leaf  its  cable  slipt 

And  from  its  moorings  went ; 

The  self-same  silent  messenger 

To  one  the  shibboleth 
Of  Life  imparting,  and  to  one 

The  countersign  of  death. 

John  B.   Tabb    ("The  First  Snow-Fall") 


[154] 


Souther  ru  Poets 

November  ninth 

Now,  with  wild  and  wintry  roar, 
Stalwart  Winter  comes  once  more, — 
O'er    our    roof-tree    thunders    loud, 
And  from  edges  of  black  cloud 
Shakes  his  beard  of  hoary  gold, 
Like  a  tangled  torrent  rolled 
Down  the  sky-rifts,  clear  and  cold. 

Paul  H.  Hayne  ("Welcome  to  Winter"). 


November  tenth 

Ho!  thou  who  thirsteth,  who,  with  longing  vision, 
Lifteth  tear-dimmed  eyes  to  glowing  west, 

Where  dying  day  hath  set  a  crimson  jewel 

To  shine  upon  the  evening's  throbbing  breast — 
There  cometh  rest,  His  promised  rest. 

Annah  R.   Watson   ("The  Promise"). 


[155] 


"Year  Book  §f 

November  eleventh 

The  night  is  wild,  but  sweet  to  me 

The  uncertain   music  that   it   brings; 
And  o'er  the  darkly  heaving  sea 

I  hear  the  rushing  might  of  wings: 
That  wailing  wo  that  seems  to  brood 

Along  the  bosom  of  the  deep 
Wakes  in  my  soul  a  kindred  mood, 

And  I  must  watch  and  may  not  sleep. 

William  O.  Simms    ("Stanzas  at  Sea"). 


November  twelfth 

Life's    wasting — but    ye    still    shine    on, 

And  seem  to  me  to  be 
The  light  upon  the  horizon 

Of  Eternity's  black  seal- 
Pointing  to  the  sunlit  far  off  west, 
Where  all  immortal  spirits  rest. 

D.  Martin  ("Hymn  to  the  Stars"). 


[156] 


Southern^  Poets 

November  thirteenth 

Grant  that  Thy  Spirit  like  a  mighty  wind 

Blow  through  my  mind  and  kindle  it  to  flame, 

Until  my  radiant  thoughts   shall  mount  like   Seraphs, 

Choiring  Thy  glory  unto  heaven  and  earth. 

Amdlie  Rives  ("Augustine  the  Man"). 


November  fourteenth 

I  have  come  back  to  my  first  love,  to  my  constant  love, 

the  sea ; 
To  the  beautiful  face  and  the  ceaseless  voice  of  music 

and  mystery ; 
From  the  weary  wastes  of  the  inland  ways,  from  the 

homes  and  haunts  of  pain 
I  have  brought  a  tired  life  back  to  lay  it  down  on  her 

shrine  again. 

James  Lindsay  Gordon   ("A   True  Love"). 


[157] 


Year  Book  §f 

November  fifteenth 

Hark !  how  the  wintry  tempest  raves 

Along  the  frozen  plain — 
Dark,   dark  the  lowering   clouds   above, 

And  fast  descends  the  rain. 

But,  lady !  now  a  deeper  gloom 

Surrounds  thy  lover's  soul, 
And  wilder  floods  of  grief  and  wo 

Around  his  spirit  roll. 

James  A.  Bartley  ("Stanzas"). 


November  sixteenth 

Thou  art  no  aimless  drift  from  wreck  of  ocean, 
Upon  the  shore,  unconscious,  idly  cast — 

Thou  art  inheritor  of  primal  forces; 
To-day  holds  in  solution  all  the  past. 

Annah  R.  Watson  ("Hersdity"). 


[158] 


Southerrv  Poets 

November  seventeenth 

For  him  there  is  no  death, 

Only  the  stopping  of  the  pulse  and  breath — 

But  simple  breath  is  not  the  all  in  all ; 

Man  hath  it  but  in  common  with  the  brutes — 

Life  is  in  action  and  in  brave  pursuits ! 

By  what  we  dream,  and  having  dreamt,  dare  do, 

We  hold  our  places  in  the  world's  large  view, 

And  still  have  part  in  the  affairs  of  men 

When  the  long  sleep  is  on  us. 
James  B.  Hope  ("To  Alexander  Gait,  the  Sculptor"). 


November  eighteenth 

Oh!  hopes  that  die,  and  griefs  that  live, 
And  joys  that  life  will  never  give; 
Shadows,  that  fall  from  light  unseen, 
So  dark,  we  stumbling  walk  between — 
Hence,  hence  away — 
Leave  me  to  pray 
Requiescat. 

Margaret  I.  Weber  ("Requiescat"). 


[159] 


cA  Year  Book  §f 

November  nineteenth 

The  winds  are  piping  shrilly 

Above  the  trembling  tree ; 
Before  their  fingers  chilly 

The  frightened  leaflets  flee; 
One  longing  look  behind  them,  cast  upon  the  branches 

bare, 
And  on  they  wildly  flutter,  the  exiles  of  the  air. 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck   ("The  Fugitives"). 


November  twentieth 

Tell  me,  oh  life,  in  the  rush  of  your  wave, 

If  the  tide  ebbs  on  when  over  the  grave, 

With  a  rhythm  like  this  we  find  on  the  earth — 

A  sigh  or  a  song  sung  from  our  birth — 

The  saddest  when  old,  the  sweetest  when  young— 

The  song  of  the  heart  that  sorrow  has  wrung? 

Samuel  H.  Newberry    ("Tell  Me,  Oh  Life") 


[160] 


Southerrv  Poets 

November  twenty-first 

Out  of  the  wild  hurly-burly, 

Over  the  wide  stretching  miles, 
Out  of  the  wrack   of  the   storm-beaten  seas, 

Into  a  harbor  of  smiles — 
Into  a  haven  of  necklacing  arms — 

Out  of  life's  tears  and  smart, 
Into  the  shine  of  your  true  blue  eyes, 

Heart  o'  my  love-lorn  heart ! 

Judd  Mortimer  Lewis  ("The  Haven"). 


November  twenty-second 

The  sparkling  of  fountains — the  glow  of  the  rill — 
The  shadows  that  rest  on  the  breast  of  the  hill — 
The  gay  wreaths  of  light,  that  the  wild  billows  ride, 
All  owe  to  my  magic  their  glory  and  pride. 

Anon.  ("The  Sunbeam"). 


[161] 


Bookgf 

November  twenty-third 

Well  hides  the  violet  in  the  wood: 
The  dead  leaf  wrinkles  her  a  hood, 
The  winter's  ill  violet's  good. 

Sidney  Lanier  ("Betrayed"). 

November  twenty-fourth 

Life,  faithless  and  treacherous  is  ever  presenting 
To  our  view  flying  phantoms  we  never  can  gain ; 

Life,  cruel  and  tasteless,  is  forever  preventing 

All  our  joys,  and  involving  all  our  pleasures  in  pain. 
Richard  Dabney    ("An  Epigram  Imitated  from  Archias"). 

November  twenty-fifth 

Though  still  enchanting  hues  are  spread 

Along  yon  woody  crest — 
'Tis  but  to  mind  us  of  the  dead — 

The  summer — gone  to  rest ! 
And  well  they  serve,  by  zephyrs  tossed 

That  whisper  of  departed  bloom, 
To  show  how  Nature  loved  the  lost — 

To  be  the  garlands  of  the  tomb. 

Charles  Wood  ("In  Autumn"). 

[162] 


Southerrv  Poets 

November  twenty-sixth 

The  calm  is  sweet  when  storms  are  gone; 
The  darkness  ushers  in  the  dawn, 
The  tempest  purifies  the  air, 
Hope  comes  sweetest  in  despair. 

Feeble  though  its  rays  may  be, 

Still  it  shines  for  thee  and  me, 

When  through  the  gates  of  death  and  pain 

Our  soul  remounts  to  life  again. 

Duval  Porter  ("The  Great  Beyond"), 

November  twenty-seventh 

How  the  feelings  sear  the  sunshine ! 

How  the  feelings  glad  the  gloom ! 
'Tis  the  heart  that  holds   our  pleasure, 

And  the  heart  that  holds  our  doom. 
'Tis  in  day,  or  'tis  in  darkness, 

That  our  lives  forever  fly, 
And  just  as  the  heart-world  wills  it, 

So  the  moments  live  and  die. 

Josie  F.  Cappleman   ("Heart  Power"). 


[163] 


Bookg/* 

November  twenty-eighth 

His   greatness   might    have   blossomed   all   unseen, 

Unrecognized,  save  in  the  narrow  view 

Of  home,  had  not  the  tumult  of  the  time, 

And  sore  calamity  of  common  weal, 

Called  him  to  action  on  a  stage  sublime, 

And  to  his  life  affixed  the  enduring  seal. 

John  R.  Thompson  ("In  Remembrance  of 

George   Wythe  Randolph"). 


November  twenty-ninth 

Hail,  Liberty !  thou  boon  which  all  men  crave, 
More  precious  far  than  life  or  crowns  of  gold ; 

Thou  ne'er  on  earth  hadst  found  an  early  grave, 

If  Thought's  free  range  had  not  been  first  controlled. 
Sidney  Dyer   ("The  Pleasures  of  Thought"). 


[164] 


Southern^  Poets 

November  thirtieth 

Each  bush,  and  every  humble  shrub,  with  precious  stones 

is  strung, 
And    all    the   sweetest,    brightest    things,   by   handfuls 

round  are  flung ; 

The  em'rald !  and  the  amethyst !  the  topazes !  behold ! 
And  here  and  there  a  ruby  red,  is  sparkling  in  the  cold. 

The  beech  tree  stands  in  rich  array  of  long  and  shining 
threads, 

Its  brittle  boughs  all  bending  low  to  earth  their  droop 
ing  heads, 

And  now   and  then  some  broken  limb  comes  crashing 
from  on  high, 

And  showering  down  a  world  of  gems  that  sparkle  as 
they  fly. 

Carter  Landon    ("The  Sleet"). 


[165] 


'Year  Book  §f 

December  first 

All  the  land  lies  muffled  in  snow, 
The  steady  north  winds  heavily  blow. 

The  tops  of  the  oaks  are  lost  in  the  sky, 
The  drooping  cedars  bend  to  the  ground, 
The  rose-bush  is  drifting  into  a  mound, 
And  still  from  the  somber  clouds  without  sound 

The  white  flakes  whirling  fly. 

/.  H.  Boner  ("Christmas  Eve  in  the  Country"), 


December  second 

An  angel  flew  from  the  upper  band, 
He  brushed  by  the  son  of  Mars, 
He  held  all  close  in  his  royal  hand, 
A  crown  of  sapphire  stars. 

A  glad  smile  lit  St.  Peter's  face 

As  he  shut  the  gold  gates  down. 

"Take  the  hero,"  he  said,  "to  the  warrior's  place, 

But  give  to  the  woman  the  crown." 

Kil  Courtland  ("Hero  and  Nun"), 


[166] 


Southerro  Poets 

December  third 

Now  while  the  rear-guard  of  the  flying  year, 
Rugged  December,  on  the  season's  verge 
Marshals  his  pale  days  to  the  mournful  dirge 
Of  muffled  winds  in  far  off  forests  drear, 
Good  friend !  turn  with  me  to  our  in-door  cheer ; 
Draw  near ;  the  huge  flames  roar  upon  the  hearth, 
And  this  shy  sparkler  is  of  subtlest  birth, 
And  a  rich  vintage,  poet  souls  hold  dear; 
Mark  how  the  sweet  rogue  woos  us !   Sit  thee  down, 
And  we  will  quaff  and  quaff  and  drink  our  fill, 
Topping  the  spirits  with  a  Bacchanal  crown, 
Till  the  funeral  blasts  shall  wail  no  more, 
But  silver-throated  clarions  seem  to  thrill, 
And  shouts  of  triumph  peal  along  the  shore. 

Paul  H.  Hayne  ("Now  While  the  Rear-Guard"). 

December  fourth 

Give  me  a  little  space, 

Lord  of  my  life,  to  see 
The  tender  sweetness  of  thy  face; 
And  suffer   in  this   darksome  place 

One  gleam  of  light  to  be. 

Mary  Bradley  ("In  Darkness''). 

[167] 


"Year  Book  §f 

December  fifth 

Elves   and  fairies  weep  and  moan; 

Wail,  sweet  Autumn,  to  the  wind! 
Brownies  of  the  woodland  groan, 

With  sad  fingers  intertwined. 
Duller  wax  her  brilliant  dyes, 
Dimmer  wane  her  dying  eyes, 
Breathless  now  her  body  lies, 

Strewn  with  roses  overblown. 
Samuel  Minturn  Peck   ("The  Death  of  Autumn") 


December  sixth 

When  calm  the  night,  and  the  stars  shine  bright, 
The  sleigh  glides  smooth  and  cheerily ; 

And  mirth  and  jest  abound, 

While  all  is  still  around, 
Save  the  horses'  trampling  sound 
And  the  horse-bells  tinkling  merrily. 

John  Shaw    ("Sleighing  Song"). 


[168] 


Southern*  Poets 

December  seventh 

The  earth  is  old,  and  gray  the  hairs  of  time 

Have  grown  since  erst  the  journeying  Sages  came 
From  the  far  East,  and  on  the  strange  quest  sublime, 

Star-led  to  Bethlehem. 

Barton  Gray   ("Last  Days"). 


December  eighth 


The  gentle  rose-bud  opening  fair, 

Begins  to  show  its  lively  hue, 
And  sweetens  the  surrounding  air 

Refreshed,  by  morning's  early  dew. 
Thus  in  the  opening  of  our  days, 

Religion  should  our  youth  adorn, 
And  Virtue  and  her  lovely  ways 

With  heavenly  dews  refresh  our  morn. 

Anon.  ("Rose's  Moral"). 


[169] 


<iA  'Year  Books/" 

December  ninth 

Day's  dying  ray 

Kindles  the  western  mountains  far  away, 
And  Faith   stands  sentry  by  the  Shadowy  Door. 

A.  H.  Rutledge  ("The  Western  Way"). 


December  tenth 

Through  the  open  door  I  turn  my  face  to  seaward, 

When  morning  winds  across  the  waters  blow : 
The  singing  bird  is  flying  far  to  leeward, 

Just  as  hope  left  me  in  the  long  ago — 
A  hope  that  once  has  gone  can  come  back  never 

The  chain  is  broken  that  no  hand  can  mend: 
Her  hand  can  rest  in  mine  no  more  forever 

That  wrote  "Your  Little  Sweetheart"  at  the  end. 

James  Lindsay  Gordon  ("Over  an  Old  Letter"), 


[170] 


Southern*  Poets 

December  eleventh 

The   sportive   hopes   that   used  to   chase 

Their  shifting  shadows  on, 
Like  children  playing  in  the  sun 

Are  gone — forever  gone ; 
And  on  a  careless  sullen  peace, 

My  double-fronted  mind, 
Like  Janus  when  his  gates  were  shut 

Looks  forward  and  behind. 

Edward  Coate  Pinkney   ("A  Picture  Song"). 


December  twelfth 


When  tatter'd  poor  folk  meet  your  eyes, 
Think,  friend,  like  Christian,  in  this  wise, 
Each  one  is  Christ  hid  in  disguise. 

James  B.  Hope  ("A  Short  Sermon"), 


[171] 


Bobkg/" 

December  thirteenth 

An  aimless  living  were  but  life  ill  spent; 
But  that  which  finds  some  duty  every  day 
Accomplished,  howe'er  so  small  or  mean, 
Has  not  alone  done  all  that  he  had  meant 
Within  the  act,  but  lent  a  part  to  sway 
The  world-controlling  providence  unseen. 

Robert  Whittet   ("Living  to  Purpose"). 

December  fourteenth 

It  is  not  Day — it  is  not  Night — 
'Tis  something  lovelier  far  than  all ; 

When  weird-winds  weave  a  tune  more  light, 
And  flower-scents  tinkle  as  they  fall, 

And  eyes  unnumber'd  wildly  glance 

Through  air,  like  gleams  of  young  Romance. 

The  angel  that  unbars  the  gate 

Of  Night,  stands  wondering  on  yon  hill, 

Nor  lets  the  burning  stars,  that  wait 
His  bidding,  march  the  skies  until 

His  soul  hath  drunk  the  sound  and  sight 

Of  Earth  and  Heaven's  sweet  troth-plight. 

David  R.  Arnell  ("Twilight"). 

[172] 


Southern;  Poets 

December  fifteenth 

Plans  fail  or  prosper,  empires  rise  or  fall, 
And  men  like  chasing  shadows,  come  and  go ; 

Hopes  bloom  or  wither,  change  creeps  over  all, 
And  still  with  noiseless  and  unbroken  flow 

The  constant  years  move  on,  as  tireless  feet 

Of  faithful  sentinels  keep  ceaseless  beat. 

Fannie  H.  Marr   ("The  Years"). 


December  sixteenth 

With  Sodom  apples  fill  your  harvest  bin ; 

Barter  heart's   wealth  for  gold  in  Fashion's  mart; 
Traverse  rough  seas  some  distant  point  to  win, 

Without  a  chart. 

Fray  the  fine  cord  of  Love  until  it  break; 

Launch  the  pirogue  before  the  storm  abate; 
Tease  the  prone  sleeping  Perii  till  it  wake: — 

Then  rail  at  Fate ! 

Danske  Dandridge  ("Fate"). 


[173] 


'Year  Book  §f 

December  seventeenth 

Sometimes  two  lives  that  have  lived  apart 
Will  strangely  touch  on  some  summer  day ; 

Then  after  a  time,  again  diverge, 

Each  going  its  sorrowful,  self-same  way. 

Josie  F.  Cappleman  ("Destiny"). 

December  eighteenth 

There  lives  in  the  bosom  a  feeling  sublime; 

Of  all,  'tis  the  strongest  tie; 
Unvarying  .through  every  change  of  time, 

And  only  with  life  does  it  die. 
'Tis  the  love  that  is  borne  for  that  lovely  land, 

That  smiled  on  the  hour  of  our  birth ; 
'Tis  the  love  that  is  planted  by  nature's  hand, 

For  our  sacred  native  earth. 
'Twas  this  that  the  patriot  victor  inspired, 

Was  strong  in  the  strength  of  his  arm, 
With  the  holiest  zeal  his  brave  bosom  fired, 

And  to  danger  and  to  death  gave  a  charm. 
'Twas  this  that  the  dying  hero  blest, 

And  hallow'd  the  hour  when  he  fell, 
That  throbb'd  in  the  final  throb  of  his  breast, 

And  heaved  in  his  bosom's  last  swell. 

Richard  Dabney  ("The  Hero  of  the  West"). 

[174] 


Southerrv  Poets 

December  nineteenth 

I  dream  of  thee,  beloved  one, 

When  the  moon  comes  over  the  sea, 
And  hangs  her  horns  of  silver, 

In  yonder  forest  tree ! 
I  wake  from  out  my  slumber, 

I  think  I  hear  thy  voice, 
It  fills  my  list'ning  spirit, 

It  makes  my  soul  rejoice. 

James  A.  Bartley  ("To  the  Beloved"). 

December  twentieth 

Where  the  yellow  leaves  as  they  float  to  earth 
In  the  autumn  time — when  the  frost  has  birth — 
Alight  on  the  turf  with  a  rustling  sound, 
As  the  waters  make  in  their  pebbly  bound ; 
Or  the  chirping  sound  of  dissolving  snow, 
As  it  runs  in  a  gush  'neath  the  sun's  red  glow ; 
There's  Nature's  music — and  her  harp  doth  here 
Peal  out  on  the  sense  with  its  liveliest  air; 
While  its  chords  for  another  note  is  strung, 
For  the  songs  of  the  earth  that  are  yet  unsung. 

Thomas  Semmes  ("Nature's  Music"). 

[175] 


^Year  Book  gf 

December  twenty-first 

Swiftly  speed  o'er  the  waves  of  time, 

Spirit  of  Death ; 
In  manhood's  home,  in  youthful  prime, 

I  was  thy  breath. 
For  the  fading  hues  of  hope  are  fled, 

Like  the  dolphin's  light; 
And  dark  are  the  clouds  above  my  head, 

As  the  starless  night. 
Oh,  vainly  the  voyager  sighs  for  the  rest 

Of  the  peaceful  haven, — 
The  pilgrim  saint  for  the  homes  of  the  blest, 

And  the  calm  of  heaven ; 
And  galley-slave  for  the  night-wind's  breath, 

At  burning  noon ; 
But  more  gladly  I'd  spring  to  thy  arms,  O  Death, 

Come  soon,  come  soon ! 

Alexander  K.  McClung   ("Ode  to  Death"). 


[176] 


Souther  n>  Poets 

December  twenty-second 

I  love  to  view  the  mountain  tall 

From  firm  fix'd  base  rear  high  its  head, 
And  brave  the  storms  that  on  it  fall, 

Nor  the  rude  shocks  of  nature  dread ; 
It  tells  me  of  the  Noble  Mind, 

That  'mid  life's  storms,  calm  and  sedate, 
In  its  own  sterling  worth  enshrin'd, 

Can  bear  the  rudest  shock  of  Fate! 

Anon.   ("Things  I  Love"). 


December  twenty-third 

In   wreaths   and   garlands   on   the  walls 
The  holly  hung  its  ruby  balls, 
The  mistletoe  its  pearls. 

Henry   Timrod    ("Our   Willie"). 


[177] 


'Year  Book  §f 

December  twenty-fourth 

Hearts    are    joyous,    cheerful; 

Faces  all  are  gay ; 
None  are  sad  and  tearful 

On  bright  Christmas  day. 

Father  Ryan  ("A  Christmas  Chant") 


December  twenty-fifth 

The  dear  Twenty-Fifth  of  December, 

The  festival  fullest  of  joy, 
Most  precious  for  age  to  remember, 

Most  merry  for  maiden  and  boy, — 
Comes  again  with  its  promise  to  gladden, 

Comes  again  with  its  prodigal  cheer, 
To  banish  whatever  may  sadden 

The  lingering  days  of  the  year. 

Margaret  J.   Preston   ("The  By-Gone"), 


[178] 


Southerrv  Poets 

December  twenty-sixth 

Den  pile  on  de  light  'ood  en  set  roun'  de  fire, 

(Crismus  times  is  come,) 
Rosum  up  de  ole  bow  and  chune  de  banjer  higher, 

(Crismus  times  is  come,) 
Dere's  no  mo'  cooning  ob  de  log  in  de  night, 

(Crismus  times  is  come,) 
O  glory  to  de  lam'  for  de  hallyluyer  light, 

(Crismus  times  is  come,) 
De  Crismus  possom  am  a-bakin'  mighty  snug, 
So  han'  aroun'  de  tumbler  en  de  little  yaller  jug 
Wid  de  co'n-cob  stopper,  en  de  honey  in  de  bowl, 
An'  aglory  hallyluyer  en  a-bless  yo'  soul. 

J.  H.  Boner  ("Crismus  Times  is  Come"). 


[179] 


Book<g/* 

December  twenty-seventh 

When  the  angels  with  their  chanting 

Roused  the  startled  shepherd  throng, 
'Twas  the  message  of  the  Christ-child, 

Lent  the  gladness  to  their  song. 
"Love,"  they  sang,  "divine,  compelling, 

Self -surrendered,  Heaven  unsealed — 
All  the  mystery  celestial 

By  the  Christ-child  now  revealed." 

Annah  R.  Watson  ("A  Little  Stranger"). 


December  twenty-eighth 

The  year  is  almost  gone ;  the  falling  leaf, 
Yellow  and  sere,  flies  far  on  every  blast; 

Spring   flower,    and  summer  fruit,    and   autumn   sheaf 
Gathered — its  bright  and  beautiful  are  past. 

William  J.  Gray  son  ("Threescore  Years  and  Seven"). 


[180] 


Southern?  Poets 

December  twenty-ninth 

Behold  before  the  wintry  gale, 

Across  the  sea  of  Night, 
How  many  a  fragrant  blossom-sail 

Comes  drifting  to  the  light ! 
Whence    are   they?      Who    hath    piloted 

Their  journey  from  afar? 
The  self -same  miracle  that  led 

The  Magi  and  the  Star. 

John  B.  Tabb   ("From  the   Under-ground"). 

December  thirtieth 

With  failing  breath 
The  old  year  dying  lifts  once  more 
His  voice.     Hark!     Ah,  'tis  but  to  tell 
The  pale  watch   of  the  night   farewell. 

/.  H.  Boner   ("Watch-Meeting"). 

December  thirty-first 

Art  thou  not  glad  to  close 

Thy  wearied  eyes,  O  saddest  child  of  Time, 
Eyes  which  have  looked  on  every  mortal  crime, 

And  swept  the  piteous  round  of  mortal  woes? 

Henry  Timrod  ("Address  to  the  Old  Year"). 

[181] 


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A  year  book  of 
southern  poets. 


LIBRARY 

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